


Ghost Stories

by dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-31
Updated: 2001-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:38:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	Ghost Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Ghost Stories by Charlotte D. p. 1/3

_Ghost Stories_

By Charlotte D. 

* * *

**Chapter 1**

London, England   
September, 1999 

Sean Crane absently swirled the amber liquid in his glass, choosing not to drink, even if it did insult his "host". Gregory Pike was still a handsome man. He didn't show his age, which Crane guessed was somewhere close to 236 by now. Or at least that was the educated guess of his fellow Watchers. 

Pike was a full-fledged Southern gentleman still, even though the South had fallen bitterly well over a century ago. Gregory still held his perfect manners, arrogant swagger and cultured, Southern drawl even after spending several decades in Europe. Perhaps it was true what he had often heard, you could take the Immortal out of the South, but you would never take the South out of the Immortal. Especially if it were a lifestyle that the man had cherished. 

Crane had read all the archives about Gregory Pike that the Watchers had on file, and he knew him to be a smart, charming bounder. . .with an evil streak half a mile wide. He had been a harsh officer in the Confederate Army. But, before that, he was a brutal plantation owner, and many men had lost their lives to his hand. It wasn't that he had casually destroyed them because they had been his slaves, it had been because they were mortal, pure and simple. Pike had cared for nothing mortal. Except maybe. . . 

Sean dared a glance at the portrait hanging above the fireplace. It had been painted at least 140 years ago, but the artist had been a master. He had captured every single, flawless detail of the young woman that had been his subject. 

"She's beautiful," Crane pointed out, sitting his glass of brandy on the coffee table and leaning back against the plush settee. 

Gregory Pike's cold green eyes followed his gaze to the portrait. He had to give this stranger credit for one thing; he appeared to be a smart man. He had chosen not to drink from the glass Greg had fixed him. Possibly because the stranger wanted his wits about him, or maybe because he didn't trust Pike. As well he shouldn't. This mere mortal had practically stormed into his house and demanded an audience with him. 

"She was one of my family's ancestors," he lied smoothly, his cultured voice softening the edge about him. 

"Really? I thought she was your fiancée, Colonel Pike," Crane used the military title, evenly meeting the other man's eyes from across the room. "A Miss Rose Thornton. Nice girl. From fine Southern stock, wasn't she? Her father promised her hand in marriage to a Confederate officer before the War of Secession even began. Her father died before the first shot was fired, but not before he commissioned a local artist to paint a portrait of his daughter to hang in his Hall. He wanted her to still be 'in his house' even after she wed her officer. She never wed the man, though. She was tragically murdered in 1863 by an Abolitionist named Duncan MacLeod. Legend has it that, nearly 80 years later a man fitting the description of her betrothed bought the portrait at an auction. That man's name was Gregory Pike." 

Centuries of practice kept Pike's emotions well hidden. With an almost pleasant smile, he responded, "A common name, I am sure. Of course, there is no way I could have known the lady personally. I would have had to live back in the 1800's, now wouldn't I?" 

"A man would have to an 'Immortal' to do that, now wouldn't he?" Sean challenged. 

All politeness left his eyes then, replaced by a cold malice that was unnerving. For a moment, Sean questioned himself for what he had just done. 

"What do you want?" 

"The same thing you want," Sean Crane assured. "The head of Duncan MacLeod." 

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Langston Mental Facility   
San Francisco, USA 

The sound of a slamming door nearly shattered the already tattered nerves of Shelby Donovan. Sitting up right in the bed, she pulled the stark white sheet closer to her body, which was covered in a fine sheen of cold sweat. 

The moonlight pouring through the window of her hospital room made the sheet seem unnaturally white and the cold, clinical writing on the sheet glow an evil green. Langston Mental Facility. Her home for more years than she cared to count. It was a low security facility for the "harmless crazies" of the world. 

The loud noise sounded again, outside of her room, and she forced herself to leave the bed, a sick feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. She knew what would happen, yet she could not stop her feet as they whispered against the cold tile floor. 

She opened her door and stepped into the long hall. The lights were dim, for it was well past midnight. Too dim, perhaps. Where was she? Belatedly, she realized she was no longer in the halls of Langston. She turned back to reach for the door handle to her room, but the handle was not there. The door was not there. 

She started in surprise as a figure moved at the end of the hall. He looked directly at her, but the shadows hide his features. He seemed to pause for a moment, but then disappeared around the corner. She began walking toward the place he had just stood. 

"Hello?" Shelby called, receiving no answer in reply. "Please, wait. . ." 

The sound of boot heels echoed from behind her, and she whirled around to see a man walking past her. He was tall and well built, a black ponytail hanging at the base of his skull. There was something achingly familiar about him, but she could not place it. The hall was too dark, allowing her to now glimpse at his face. He walked past her without acknowledging her, and then he, too, disappeared around the corridor. Seconds later, the lightening started. Just like the night-- 

"No!" she screamed, horrifying images of her eighth birthday filling her mind. She took a step towards the lightening, and felt the presence by her side even before the shadow stepped from the corner. 

A sad, weary face looked her in the eye as the man quietly advised, "You cannot save them all, Shelby." 

"Leave me alone," she pleaded. And then screamed, "Leave me alone!" 

She stepped away from the man. The Dark Man who had died so many years ago. She stumbled backwards, and the hand lunged from the darkness to silence her. . . . 

* * *

Shelby Donovan sat bolt right in her bed, the scream of terror echoing through the empty room. She was thankful for the lamp she had left on beside her bed, for it filled her narrow room with blessed light, chasing away all the shadows. Her slender hands trembled as she pushed them through her long blonde hair. 

"It was a dream," she whispered the words, but they offered little peace. They never did after the recurring nightmare. She took several deep breaths to calm herself before pushing the covers back and sliding from the bed. She walked the short distance to the bathroom, flipping on the light. 

She turned the cold water on and leaned over to splash it on her face. She raised her eyes to the mirror. . .and still in horror at the sight of The Dark Man. He stood behind her, their eyes locking in the mirror. She could feel her body trembling at the mere sight of him. It couldn't be. . .he was dead. She had seen him die thirteen years ago. 

"Shelby," The Dark Man began, only to be cut off. 

"Leave me alone. You are not real," she insisted. "YOU ARE NOT REAL!" 

"Listen to me. You are in danger. Grave danger," he insisted. 

"You died. You are not real!" she shouted as she whirled around to face him. 

Two figures lunged in her direction, and she hit and clawed to be free of them. The men tightened their hold on her, one producing a syringe filled with clear liquid. 

She bit back a cry of pain as the needle jobbed into her flesh, the sedative affecting her quickly. Her last thought was to recognize the men as the night orderlies of Langston Mental Facility, and then the darkness greeted her. 

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Paris, France   
May 19, 2000 

Duncan MacLeod stepped into the bar that belonged to his dear friend, Joe Dawson. Normally, the thought of his friend owning a blues club in Paris always brought a smile to his lips, but today was different. Today he had little to smile about. 

From behind the bar, Joe offered him a nod of greeting. Dawson was always happy to see his friend, but today was difficult for them both. It was nearly impossible to believe. Three years. . . 

He didn't realize he had said the words out loud until MacLeod flinched as if physically struck, the old pain lingering in his eyes. 

"Yes, Joe," he sighed. "It has been three years." 

"Mac, I'm sorry," he stated remorsefully. "I didn't mean to. . ." 

"It's okay, Joe," he forced a reassuring smile. "You aren't thinking anything that I haven't already said to myself a dozen times. It's hard to believe that it has been three years." 

The other man merely nodded, the light twinkling off his gray hair. He was a Watcher. MacLeod's Watcher, to be exact. He had crossed all the lines and broken all the rules for this man, but he couldn't say he was sorry for a moment of it. Duncan MacLeod had been the best damn friend he had ever had. And if he had it to do all over again, he wouldn't change any of it. Well. . .perhaps he would. If he could, he would change what had happened three years ago today. But he also knew that Mac would give his life to change it, as well. 

He sensed the sudden change in MacLeod. The stiffness of his body, as if he was sensing the presence of another. Joe would never understand this strange link that existed between Immortals. It was almost like a psychic connection between them. 

The door swung open, and Joe sighed with relief to see Methos stroll nonchalantly into his establishment. The last thing his friend needed today was to encounter one of his own. Especially if that one was after Mac's head. 

Methos glanced back and forth between the two men before beginning, "'Oh, how are you today, Adam?' 'Why, I'm fine. Thank you for asking.' 'Can we offer you anything?'" 

"The bar is closed," Dawson snapped, irritated that Methos could forget what today was. How could anyone forget an anniversary like this one? Methos--a.k.a. Adam Pierson--of all people should know better. After all, he had been there that horrid night. 

"Hello, Methos," MacLeod finally nodded. 

"What do you want?" Dawson snapped. 

The oldest living Immortal seemed to shift awkwardly for a moment before offering an almost embarrassed shrug. "I thought you boys might like a bit of company this afternoon. I'll be your chauffeur, if you so please." 

Realization hit Joe then. Methos hadn't forgotten. He was here to pay his respects, and offer what little support he could. Despite the many flaws of this man, he had learned that there was also goodness to Methos. Loyalty and compassion, as well. It was often hidden under centuries of cynicism and wise-ass comments, but it was there. 

Duncan turned to his friend then, offering him a small smile of gratitude as he inquired. "You ready?" 

Reaching for his cane, Joe nodded and followed the two men from the bar. Neither was aware of the eyes that followed their every movement. 

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Duncan MacLeod stood over the grave of his friend, the old pain settling in his chest as it always did when he thought of the people he had loved and lost. But this one was especially hard. This friend had been lost by his own hand. 

"Oh, Richie," he sighed, kneeling and placing the flowers against the marble headstone. 

_Richie Ryan. 22 years. Friend._

The words stared back at him. Mocking him almost. Yes, Richie had been his friend. A friend that had lost his life because of him. Three years ago this day. 

Memories flooded his mind. He and Richie tuning up his car. Going to the movies. Them talking about Immortality, or, sometimes, just having a friendly, meaningless conversation about the weather. 

He had taken Richie into his life and his home when the boy was seventeen. A streetwise, thieving punk on the outside. A scared, lonely kid on the inside. He had given Richie a home. . .but Richie and Tessa Noel had given him a family. Now they were both gone. 

God, how he missed them. He missed coming home to find them waiting for him. He missed sitting in his chair, pretending to read while Richie and Tessa played chess. He had never been able to concentrate on his reading, instead he had been drawn to watching them. He missed the humanity that was Tessa Noel. He missed the humor that had been Richard Ryan. 

He had lost Tessa, but had still had Richie to hold to. Their friendship had been troubled at times, but there was none he had trusted more. Like a father to a son, he had taught all he knew to the boy. 

_"Just because a relationship changes, doesn't mean it ends,"_ he had told Richie once after a difference of opinion they had had. 

Funny, that his words should mock him now. As so many other things they had spoken over the years. 

_I never thought one of the good guys would lose,_ Ryan had told Tessa years ago when their friend Darius had been murdered. 

"The good guys lose all the time, Richie," he sighed at the memory. "You're proof of that." 

From behind him, Joe Dawson placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, Mac," he offered the words that he knew gave little comfort. MacLeod would always blame himself for that horrible, tragic night that had claimed the life of Richie Ryan, and claimed a huge part of MacLeod's soul, also. "Wherever Richie is, he knows that." 

"Does he?" the Scotsman's handsome face twisted with the bitterness of his words. "Or does he just know that the man he trusted caused his death?" 

"Duncan, you can't--" Dawson's words broke off as he spotted a car that pulled up close to them. A man he recognized stepped out. He kept a respectable distance, but his looks clearly indicated that he needed Joe's immediate attention. 

"Go ahead," Mac insisted. He watched as his friend moved to the young Watcher. 

When they were alone, Methos shifted uncomfortably, reminding, "When Alexa died, I wanted to die with her. A part of me did. You saw me afterwards. I buried myself in anything that served as a distraction. I just wanted to forget. But you told me that a person lived on as long as someone who had loved them lived, and remembered them. Now I am telling you that. Richie will live on because Dawson and Amanda and myself remember him. But mainly because of you. You are the one who will always keep his spirit alive." 

MacLeod nodded, grateful that his friend was trying to help. "I could have sworn Richie was at the barge the other night," he hesitantly admitted. "I had the chessboard out and, for a moment, I thought he was there. I felt his presence that strongly. I--I even thought I heard him say my name. I turned around but. . ." 

_"I didn't know you believe in ghosts."_ The haunting words of Richie Ryan filled his mind from a conversation they had had years ago. 

_"I believe in the kind you carry with you,"_ he had told his friend that night. _"Everyone you've loved and everyone you've killed. They never leave you."_

And, indeed, they didn't. It was a lesson he was still learning. 

Methos had made no comment, so he turned on his heels to see if the man was still there. Curiously, he followed the other man's gaze to where Joe stood, arguing with the younger man several feet away. The lad finally handed Dawson a book before climbing back into his car and driving off. 

"I wonder what that was about?" Methos questioned. 

"I don't know," Duncan stated, standing to his feet as Joe rejoined them, oddly studying the book in his hand. "Something wrong?" 

Worry lines creased Dawson's forehead, his eyes troubled as he answered, "One of our men caught another Watcher trying to steal this book." 

"That's a bit odd. Why would anyone want to steal a dusty old book?" Methos interjected. 

Joe hesitated, but then admitted. "It was a man named Wallace. We suspect that he had ties with James Horton." 

Anger at the name of the Watcher turned executioner filled Duncan's dark eyes. "If he was one of Horton's followers, then why is he still with the Watchers?" 

"We never proved he was involved with Horton. We just suspected it. But he was reduced to bookkeeping duties." He seemed to hesitate a moment, but then held the book out to his Immortal friend. "I think this belonged to you once." 

The dark-haired man looked at the aging, tattered book for a moment, shock registering in his face. Slowly, he reached for it, his hand caressing the broken cover. 

"I know Robert Burns was a Scotsman, and you loved his poems, but you look like I just gave you a rare treasure, Mac." 

A lump swelled in his throat as he whispered, "I thought I had lost this. Where. . .? How. . .?" 

"One of your Watchers," Dawson assured. 

"I gave this to an escaped slave during the Civil War," he refuted. "I was helping some others North and I gave it to him for safe keeping until I returned. But I was captured instead and sent to Andersonville." 

"I know. The man's name was Harold Monroe. He was your Watcher," Joe smiled at his friend's stunned expression. 

"He was a field slave," he disagreed. "He couldn't read or write. I helped him escape and then--" 

"He was a Watcher," Joe insisted. "Very well educated, actually. A freed man from the start. It was a ploy to make you think he was an escaped slave. He agreed to help you with the Underground Railroad just so he could stay close enough to keep tabs on you. When you were captured, he was re-assigned. The book was put in the archives. Robert Burns, huh?" 

"'A Red, Red Rose'," MacLeod softly whispered the name of the poem. He opened the cover of the book, and a wash of pain filled him at the feminine handwriting that was sprayed across the front page. He touched the words tenderly, his fingertips tracing each curve and letter. Rose Thornton. Red Rose. _His_ Rose. 

"Are you all right, Mac?" a concerned Methos asked. "You look like you have seen a ghost." 

Duncan forced his dark eyes from the words and glanced back to the grave of Richie Ryan. Today was full of ghosts. 

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Dr. Greenlee was watching her as if she were insane, Shelby Donovan thought, biting back a sardonic laugh at her own self. Why not? She _was_ insane! 

She probably would have laughed out loud at the foolishness of her own thoughts, but the dull ache in her head prevented that. The sedative the orderlies had administrated had left her with a throbbing headache and the usual grogginess that followed being drugged. 

"I'm sorry for the sedatives," Greenlee announced when he noticed her rubbing her temples. "The orderlies are new and overreacted, Shelby. But I have assured them that you are not violent and such extreme measures should not have been taken." 

"Did they see him?" she asked suddenly, tucking her feet under her on the couch of the hospital's chief psychiatrist. 

"See who?" the pudgy doctor pleaded innocence. 

"You know who," her voice cracked slightly. "Him. The Dark Man. He was in my room. They had to have seen him." 

Greenlee removed his glasses and made a great show of cleaning them while he studied his young patient. He had been her doctor since she was "referred" to him thirteen years ago. The trembling, scared little eight year old girl had blossomed into a stunningly beautiful young woman. She was not too tall, slender with curves in the right places. Her face was one of classic, stunning beauty. Wide set blue eyes, full pouty lips, and high cheekbones were framed by a mane of long blonde hair. It was too bad a woman as lovely as she had had her mind destroyed years ago. 

"The Dark Man," he repeated. "Why do you call him that?" 

"Because he wears all back," she recalled. "And there is such sadness in his eyes. He seems so dark. . ." 

"Ms. Donovan, you and I both know that Christopher Ramsey is dead. You did not see him last night or any other night." 

"Don't call him that. It isn't his real name." 

"And how do you know that?" 

"Because he told me!" she snapped, irritably. "His real name was Claude. He was a warrior in ancient Rome. He fought for the freedom of his people. He was killed in battle. Only. . ." 

"Only he didn't die," the man finished with his own irritable sigh. "He was revived and found by another one just like him. This other one taught him to fight. We have discussed this before, Shelby. There is no such thing as 'Immortals' who play a 'Game'. This 'Dark Man' was your elementary school teacher. His name was Christopher Ramsey. He was brutally murdered by a serial killer. You witnessed it the night of your eighth birthday." 

Her stomach lunged at the reminder. The sound of the swords. The lightening that spewed from the body of the dead man. The Dark Man who had died. . .but he hadn't. He was still here. Still haunting her. 

"He was in my room last night," she stubbornly repeated. "He warned me about danger. It could be the other one. The Immortal that killed him." 

"Ms. Donovan, your logic makes little sense," Dr. Greenlee sighed. "You expect me to believe that these Immortals exist and sword fight for one another's Quickening. The one with the most, wins the Game, right? And the only way an Immortal can die is if his head is severed from his body?" 

"Yes! Or that is what Claude told me." 

"And did he tell you this before or after he was decapitated?" 

"After," Shelby replied. 

"But if he had 'lost his head' then wasn't he dead, according to The Rules?" Greenlee inquired, gently trying to make her see the holes in her own delusions. 

"No. Yes. Dammit, I don't know," she whispered, pushing a hand through her hair. Her mind was still too groggy from the drugs to think logically. "All I know is that last night I had a conversation with a man who has been dead for thirteen years. And it wasn't a dream." 

"Perhaps it was a hallucination, brought on by the dreams," he gently hedged. "These dreams started three years ago, didn't they? And they are always the same?" 

"Yes. I am at a place I don't know. It's a long, dark hall. Two men are there. One seems to be beckoning to me, but the other doesn't see me. And then the lightening starts, like the night Claude died. And then Claude tells me that I 'can't save them all'. And then someone in the shadows grabs me." 

"And you wake up screaming," he finished. "The orderlies heard your scream, Shelby. They were in your room moments later. They saw no one. However, I am curious about what this Christopher, uh, Claude, says to you. He says you 'can't save them all'. What does he mean by that?" 

"I don't know." 

"Perhaps he is admonishing you of any guilt in his death," the doctor hedged. "He wants you to realize that you were a scared child, hiding in the shadows the night he was beheaded by a serial killer. You suffered a terrible trauma that night. You invented this theory of 'Immortals' to help you deal with what you saw. It was a child's way of coping with a gruesome murder. Over the years, you convinced yourself that it was true. It abstains you from any guilt in not stopping Mr. Ramsey's murder." 

"But Claude says that--" she broke off suddenly, resting her throbbing head in her hand. "Oh, my God, you must think I am a lunatic. I don't want to be crazy, Dr. Greenlee. I have tried so hard not to be." 

The tears shimmering in her blues eyes touched him, and for a moment he felt intense guilt over what he was doing. What he had done in the past. The cuff of his expensive jacket was pushed up slightly, and his narrow eyes clung to the tattoo on the inside of his wrist for several seconds. It reminded him of his duty to his own. He was a Watcher. He would do what was expected of him. Shelby Donovan was a rare case indeed. One to be studied and monitored closely, for the safety of his organization. And to the loyalty he had pledged elsewhere. She had to be controlled. . .until the time was right to release her. 

"We will get you well, Shelby. Now, tell me about this young man you have been seeing," he smoothly changed the subject. Langston Mental Facility had little to no security measures when it came to patients such as Shelby. They were allowed contact with the outside world, and she had apparently made a friend recently. 

She smiled then. A perfect, strait smile that made her all the more beautiful for it lit up her face and exposed a tiny dimple in her left cheek. "He is wonderful. There's a peacefulness to him, Doctor. He makes me laugh and forget all my troubles. In fact, I'd like to see him after the session." 

"How much does he know about you?" he asked a bit sharply. 

She started at his abrupt tone, before admitting shamefully, "Very little. The last thing I want is to scare him off with the news that I am a 'harmless crazy' from Langston. Or that I have conversations with dead men." 

"I think we have talked enough for one session," he suddenly announced, glancing down at his watch. "Go meet your friend." 

Greenlee waited patiently until she had exited the room before reaching for his phone. He quickly dialed the number and spoke simply, "She is going to the park. Follow her." 

He hung up the phone then, and rested back against his leather seat. His eyes turned to a photo on his desk, and he reached for it. The smiling face of James Horton looked back at him as he vowed, "MacLeod will pay, James. The lovely Miss Donovan will see to it herself." 

* * *

**Chapter 6**

It was a beautiful spring day in California, and Shelby Donovan enjoyed the warm sunlight that beat down on her face. A shower and a change of clothes had helped to erase the rest of the cobwebs from her mind. And the warm sunshine as well as the refreshing breeze was only serving to make her feel even better. 

Dr. Greenlee had arranged her pass for a few hours to leave the institute. And, even if he hadn't, she would have snuck away if it mean seeing _him._ She had snuck away from Langston that fateful day they had first met. She had had the dream for the first time the night before, and had been restless all that day. She had snuck off to the park, and there had met the stranger that was proving to change her life. 

A smile spread across her features at the sight of him waiting for her in their special spot. He was sitting under the tree like he had been the first time she had seen him. She didn't know what had prompted her to speak to him that day. Perhaps because he had looked so lost. As lost as she herself had felt at times. But she would never regret her decision to talk to him that day. 

He stood when he saw her, a smile spreading across his boyish face. The light breeze tickled his curly hair, and it seemed to sparkle in the sunlight. He looked almost Heavenly to her. Shelby quickened her pace to reach his side. His blue eyes sparkled at her as she stepped into his arms and embraced the man she knew as Richie Ryan. 

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Sean Crane held the binoculars to his eyes to get a closer view of the lovely lady sitting under the tree. From beside him, his assistant shifted restlessly and complained, "He's late." 

"He's testing us," Crane refuted. "Mr. Pike and I came to an understanding at his penthouse in London. He wants MacLeod, and he knows that I am the easiest way to help him get what he wants." 

"I can't believe you trusted him with the secret of the Watchers," Brett sighed. 

"I don't trust him. Which is why, after he kills MacLeod, he won't live long enough to tell our secret. He thinks I will help him take MacLeod's head," Sean explained again. "And I will. Only after he is weak from MacLeod's Quickening, I will take his head. Just like James would have done." 

Brett bit his lower lip to keep from pointing out that James Horton and his "brilliant plans" had been the death of the man. He, too, was a Watcher and one of Horton's proud followers. Like Horton and Crane, we wanted to rid the world of the abomination that was the Immortals. But he was also wise enough to know that when a plan fails miserably, not to try it again. 

Horton had tried such a scheme when he had allied himself with Xavier St. Cloud, but that had backfired in the end. And Horton had also tried the "dead lover" ploy by reinventing Tessa Noel. That had been the death of Horton. 

Now Crane was trying to re-vamp both plans to use against MacLeod. 

"Did I tell you that our people in Paris did as instructed?" Crane inquired. "I was right. MacLeod went to Ryan's grave just as I knew he would. Our people there delivered the book to Dawson, and I'm sure the traitor gave it to MacLeod. Right now, he is probably remembering his ill-fated encounter with Rose Thornton. And so is Gregory Pike." 

Crane adjusted the binoculars again and turned his attention back to Shelby Donovan. What a find she had been! He blessed the day that Dr. Greenlee had pledged allegiance to their grand cause, and told both him and James Horton about this girl. She was perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

"I know you doubt James' logic and mine at times, Brett. But James was a brilliant man. He always had a back-up plan. And a secret weapon." 

"And what might that be?" he casually asked, holding up his own binoculars to spy on the girl. 

"You're looking at her. She bears a striking resemblance to Rose Thornton," he announced. 

"And Lisa Millon was a perfect double for Tessa Noel," Brett felt obliged to remind. "That plan was ill conceived from the start. Why would MacLeod fall for it now if he didn't then?" 

"Because Lisa was a manufactured double. Meant for MacLeod to doubt and believe at the same time. Miss Donovan is just a stroke of fate for us." 

Any further comment was cute short by the sound of a car pulling up behind them. Crane glanced over his shoulder briefly to see a Rolls Royce roll to a stop. The driver quickly bounced out and opened the rear door for Gregory Pike to emerge. He made a great show of adjusting his cape and positioning his gold-tipped cane in his hand before strolling in their direction. 

"You promised me the head of Duncan MacLeod," he announced as he joined the two others. "That was months ago. Now you beckon me across the world for your master plan, and I have yet to see any results." 

"Patience," Crane insisted, handing the binoculars to the other man. "We need MacLeod in just the perfect setting before we strike. And we are about to put a key figure in place." 

Pike snatched the glasses from the man and held them to his eyes. "And what could possibly. . . .Oh my God. . . .Rosie?" 

* * *

"Hello, Miss Donovan." 

Shelby started in surprise at the sound of her name, turning to face the man she recognized as the administrator of Langston. 

"Mr. Crane," she acknowledged, feeling like a schoolgirl being caught skipping class. "I have a pass to be off the grounds. I was here to meet a friend, but I'm afraid you just missed him." 

"It's quite all right. I just saw you here and wanted to introduce you to a friend of mine," Sean Crane announced, turning to the man who stood beside him. "This is Gregory Pike. Greg, allow me to introduce you to Shelby Donovan." 

The man moved towards her, and she took a frightened step back. His cold green stare was intimidating, making her nervous. 

Gregory Pike appeared to be in his thirties, but she had an uncanny feeling that he was much, much older than that. His jet back hair was graying prematurely at the temples, and he had fine lines around his mouth and eyes. Perhaps from frowning too much. 

He was a handsome man, but the way he eyed her was unnerving. There was possessiveness there. As if he thought she belonged to him in some way. 

"Miss Donovan," he reached for her hand, holding it tightly so she couldn't pull away. He bowed gallantly, bring her slender hand to his lips for a kiss. Much as he had done a century and a half ago when he had met her double, Rose Thornton. This woman was the image of her, except for the hair. Rose's had been a shimmering red and blessed with natural curls. Shelby Donovan's was a gold blonde, long and strait. But the face was the same. She even had the bright blue eyes that his Rosie had. 

Shelby took the opportunity to tug her hand away from him, resisting the urge to wipe off the feel of his cold touch. He was dangerous. But hadn't The Dark Man already warned her of danger? 

An Immortal. This man was an Immortal. And he knew that she knew what he was and-- 

Shelby ran a shaky hand through her hair, trying to squash her insane thoughts. It was a horrible reality to know her own mind betrayed logic. It was frightening to have such vivid delusions and actually think they were true. 

"I-I have to go," she announced, turning from the men and rushing off before one could stop her. 

"She's scared of me," Pike stated, a hint of disappointment in her voice. 

"Well, how do I say this delicately," Crane began. "The lady has a, shall we say, unstable mind. But I already explained that to you." 

"Explain it again. You have my full attention this time," Pike assured. "You said she once witnessed an Immortal beheading?" 

"Yes. When she was eight. She saw Kronos take the head of Claude the Gladiator." 

"Claude? He was one of the few ancient ones left. But so was Kronos," Pike sighed. 

"Yes. But Claude had tried to leave the Game by that time. He had taken a job teaching elementary school history, appropriately. He was also a counselor. That is how he met Shelby Donovan. She was a student at his school, although not one of his own students. He begun counseling her right after her parents died when she was seven. Claude was going though a difficult time of his own. His wife and stepchildren had been killed in a car crash the year before. He took to her. He received permission from her foster parents to take her to a carnival for her eighth birthday. That night he encountered Kronos. The rest you can imagine." 

"And she witnessed it," Gregory finished. "So she knows about Immortality, but no one believed her. Hence, she was committed." 

"Not that simple. Initially, we allowed the local authorities to handle the matter. They believed Claude had been decapitated by a serial killer. And they thought the trauma of the incident had prompted Shelby to imagine the 'lightening' she had seen. It soon became apparent, though, that Claude had revealed his secrets to her. So the Watchers intervened. One of our own took charge of her care. He tried to convince her that she had hallucinated the entire incident and any notion of an 'Immortal' was impossible. But then our doctor began to realize that there was more to her story. The reason Claude was counseling her was because she was considered unstable mentally. Our doctor diagnosed her with a personality disorder. We brought her here to Langston, where my friend James Horton discovered her." 

"If she has a personality disorder, then why isn't she being treated with medication?" Pike inquired. 

Crane hesitated, but then confided, "James seemed to think otherwise. He felt that she was not mentally ill, but rather she had certain unique abilities. ESP, perhaps. To put it bluntly, he thought she was psychic." 

The Immortal threw his head back and laughed loudly. "Your friend sounds like he is the one who should have been committed. He honestly believed that she is a medium between this world and the next?" 

"A man who lives forever without aging doubts that there are other unexplainable things in this world?" he challenged, the sunlight sparkling off his light brown hair as he turned to look the other man directly in the eye. "I don't pretend to agree with everything James thought of her, but she was. . .mysterious in some ways. She had an uncanny way of knowing things she shouldn't know. She had 'feelings' and 'premonitions' that were frighteningly accurate. It was eerie at times. But she got one thing wrong. Once, during a session with James, she told him that he was 'the man MacLeod couldn't kill'. Sadly, James believed it. He even taunted MacLeod with that phrase." 

"And MacLeod killed him," Pike finished the story. "Just like he murdered my Rosie." 

"Did he really? I know that is what your Watcher recorded in his archives. But it was suggested that something entirely different happened," Crane taunted, but decided not to press the matter when he received a dark look from the Immortal. "Anyhow, I suppose Shelby was right to some degree. MacLeod couldn't kill James' work. It will continue, with or without your cooperation." 

Gregory seemed to consider the offer, pressing his lips together in thought. "What part will she play in this ruse?" 

"She will remind him of the past. Of Rose Thornton. He will try to 'save' her, and walk into our trap. Dr. Greenlee is making plans for us as we speak. I can have her on a plane to Paris in a few days. The only question is: are you in or not?" 

"Yes," the Immortal agreed, pausing in thought. "But I am changing the terms of our deal, Mr. Crane. Not only do I want the head of Duncan MacLeod, but, when this is all over, I want Shelby Donovan, too." 

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Paris, France 

"So," Methos was saying as he handed his friend a cup of coffee, "I can't decide where to vacation. What do you think, Mac, Venice or Madrid?" 

"Sounds great," a clearly distracted Duncan MacLeod replied, his dark eyes trained to the book Joe had given him days before. It rested on his coffee table, where it had been since his return from Richie's grave. 

"Yes, but first I thought I would sink your barge," Methos chipperly added, looking around the nice interior of his friend's residence. "Then I am going to take Joe to the center of the city and set him on fire." 

"Well, you two have fun," he encouraged. 

Methos threw his hands up in the air, accepting defeat. Walking back to where Joe Dawson stood, quietly sipping his own cup of coffee, he inquired, "What's wrong with him, Joe?" 

"Do you really have to ask?" the Watcher snapped. "Mac always takes the anniversary of Richie's death hard." 

"Not this hard," the other man disagreed. "No, it's more than just Richie this time. There is something about that book that is upsetting him." 

Dawson sighed in agreement. "I was thinking the same. And I have already had it checked out. Unfortunately, there isn't much to tell. Mac was working with the Underground Railroad during the Civil War. He was separated from his Watcher, Harold Monroe, for several weeks. When they were brought back together, Mac had the book with him. His Watcher wrote that something had changed in him. Monroe felt that Mac had been through some type of life changing event, but no one knew for certain. Still. . .we know that he had an encounter with a fellow Immortal named Gregory Pike around that time. Pike was a Confederate officer. Pike's Watcher wrote that Mac had killed a mortal woman named Rose Thornton. She was Pike's fiancée." 

"Do you believe that?" Methos inquired. 

"MacLeod has chivalry down to an art," Joe instantly leapt to the defense. "He barely draws his sword to Immortal women, much less a mortal one. I couldn't imagine him murdering someone in cold blood; the way Pike's Watcher described it. But it was war." 

"And we all know that terrible things happen during war," he finished. 

Dawson sighed, sitting his cup down, "I have a meeting to get to. Can I give you a ride?" 

"Why not? My company here isn't needed, obviously," he agreed. 

Duncan glanced up when his two friends approached him. He half-heartedly listened to them say they were leaving. He stood to his impressive height, following them to the door and seeing them out. 

He closed the door behind them before returning to his seat. He knew his friends meant well, and he did appreciate them for that. But some things were best left to deal with alone. He hesitantly reached for the book he hadn't touched since returning from Richie's grave. 

Losing Richie had been one of the hardest things he had ever endured. As equally bad had been the loss of his beloved Tessa. So many people he had loved that were no longer in his life. Richie and Tessa had been his family. The son he was never supposed to have, and the woman he had loved enough to want to marry. 

There had been other loves in the past, though, he thought, softly caressing the worn cover. And, much like Richie, there had been others who had lost their lives because of him. Leaning back into his chair, he closed his eyes and remembered. . . . 

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Near Savannah, Georgia, 1863 

"How are they holding up?" MacLeod asked to his friend, taking a long sip of water from his canteen before holding it out to the other man. 

Harold Monroe took it with a nod of thanks, taking a long sip of the water before glancing back at the group of escaped slaves there were trying to get North. He had learned that being a Watcher was dangerous enough, but being an Abolitionist was much worse. Especially if one was assigned to Duncan MacLeod. 

"They are exhausted, but we can't slack up yet," Monroe insisted. "The Rebs are all over these woods today." 

"I agree," MacLeod nodded, absently scratching his long black beard. He knew he was in desperate need of a shave and a haircut, but those needs seemed trivial compared to the task at hand. Three families--seven in all--were putting their lives in his hand in the great hope that he could get them to freedom. 

Turning to Harold, he asked, "How certain are you about this contact of yours? This Big Al person?"

"I don't know much about him," Monroe reluctantly admitted. "But since the Confederate Army raided our last safehouse, the Underground Railroad had to find some other contact. There are rumors of someone who assists the Railroad from time to time. They call this person The Shadow. Apparently, Al is the only contact we have to him. But he has agreed to get our families North." 

"I don't like this," Duncan shook his head. "I feel uncomfortable trusting someone who doesn't allow us to know him at all." 

"Al says the identity of The Shadow must be protected. Apparently this person has some type of contact with the Confederacy, and there is a high fear that The Shadow could be hung if anyone knows his identity." 

"They think we will sell him out if we are captured," Duncan finished, checking the sky to judge the time. This Al person had given them the directions to a small grove, but strict orders to keep the people hidden in the woods at all times. And now he was late. 

As if to mock his words, a horse whinnied from behind them, and MacLeod swung around to see the most enormous man he had ever seen in his life slide from the back of his horse. The horse was an impressive animal, but even it seemed small upside this man. 

Al, he guessed. Or "Big Al" as he had been first referred to. Mac now understood why. The black man was huge, at least close to seven foot. Years of hard labor had given him massive muscle and a strong, broad chest and back. 

"Big Al," Harold concluded with a nod of greeting. 

"Did you make it with no complications?" he asked in a deep, rumbling voice. 

"Yes," MacLeod stepped forward to greet the man. "Only we have a few more than we originally thought. Will that be a problem for The Shadow?" 

The big man frowned at the mention of his friend. "The Shadow can handle anything." 

"Maybe I would like to ask him that myself," Duncan casually suggested. 

"No one meets The Shadow. Anything you have for him, you send through me," Big Al threatened. 

"Harold and I have risked our lives to bring these people to freedom," MacLeod reminded. "I won't just hand them over to someone I don't know. . .or trust." 

Big Al took a menacing step in his direction, staring down at the man as he assured, " _I_ trust him, and that is all you need to know. Me and The Shadow will have them in a safehouse by midnight." 

MacLeod opened his mouth to object, but a bullet sliced past his head, clipping a lock of his black hair and stopping any comment he was about to make. He heard the people scream and duck for cover as the tiny grove was suddenly surrounded and filled with the Confederate Calvary. Men in gray held their pistols high, aiming them at all their hearts. 

"Toss your weapons down. Now!" one of them ordered. 

Reluctantly, Duncan reached for his pistol and tossed it aside. He touched the handle of his sword, but stilled as he felt it: the deep, stirring presence of another Immortal. 

An officer rode into the clearing then, his cold green eyes seeking out MacLeod. Duncan judged him to be a pompous man. His uniform was spotless and pressed. His tall black boots spit-shined until they gleamed. Even the feather in his hat looked new. Yes, he was arrogant. But still an Immortal, an enemy, and that made him very dangerous. 

From beside him, Big Al released a soft curse. Duncan glanced to the man, and was surprised to see genuine fear in his eyes. It wasn't fear for himself, though. But fear of something else. 

"I hereby arrest you in the name of the Confederate States of America," the Immortal boasted. He turned his eyes to MacLeod then, and then added, "I am your captor. You shall call me Colonel Pike. Colonel Gregory Pike." 

He slid off his horse then, taking the reigns of the animal and walking towards MacLeod. "Tie him," he ordered to a corporal. "And the others as well. Especially this one," he continued, glancing at Big Al. He stopped then, curiously eyeing the slave that refused to look him in the eye. "I know you, don't I, boy?" 

"No, sir," Al mumbled. "I never seen you before today, Colonel. These peoples were taking me to freedom." 

"Sir," an officer interrupted, leading Al's horse by the reigns. "I think you will want to see this, Colonel." 

The man turned the animal to show its brand, and Al cursed again as Pike recognized the mark. Turning now furious eyes to Big Al, he accused, "I do know you. You are the foreman from the Three Springs Plantation. You stole their horse, you worthless trash," he hissed, raising a hand and slapping Al hard across the cheek. 

"Yes," the big man confessed. "I stole the Master's horse to ride to freedom!" 

"You will die for that," Pike assured. "As will your two Abolitionist friends here. And you slaves will be returned to your masters! But, first, I will return the horse you stole. Saddle up, people! We are making a detour." 

* * *

**Chapter 10**

The Three Springs Plantation was a sprawling, impressive sight to see. Even this deep into the war, it seemed to have been left untouched by the violence. It was almost like stepping into a place that the war--maybe even time itself--had forgotten. 

The well-manicured grass was thick and green. The long, curving driveway was anointed by running pink roses that were in full bloom, their sweet fragrance filling the air and tickling MacLeod's senses. 

The mansion itself was among the most beautiful he had ever seen. Gleaming, long white columns framed a porch that went the entire way around the two-story, Victorian style house. An upstairs curtain waved in the gentle breeze and a young man stepped out onto the balcony. He watched them for a split second before disappearing back inside. 

MacLeod tested the ropes that had him bound to the saddle horn of his horse. They were secure, he grunted again in disgust. Pike had the reigns of both his horse and the horse Big Al had stolen. Al's wrists were bound by a long rope that Pike also held, forcing the man to either run behind them or be dragged to death. 

They stopped in front of the main house. After a long pause, the tall, wide door swung open and an elderly black man stepped out. He was a slave, but judging by his elegant dress, MacLeod judged him to be the butler. Certainly not one to be used in field labor. 

"Colonel Pike," he humbly began, "I sent for Miss Rose. She was taking her afternoon rest, Sir, so she may be a moment." 

"That is fine, Thomas. I am sure my fiancée was surprised to have me call without informing her first, but something important has made this visit a necessity," Pike assured, shifting the reigns in his hand and glancing over his shoulder to where Al had collapsed to his knees, literally exhausted. 

The man called Thomas followed his gaze, shock and fear registering in his dark eyes. "S-Sir? Is that Big Al? H-Has something happened?" 

"Yes," Pike decreed. "I caught him trying to escape with the rest of these slaves. He had stolen Miss Rose's prize mare." 

"My horse! Not Peaches!" a new voice exclaimed, and all eyes turned to see a stunningly beautiful woman rush down the tall steps and to the side of Thomas. 

MacLeod felt his breath catch at the sight of her. She could barely be twenty, but her face was timeless. A mane of unruly red curls slipped from the bun at the base of her neck and spilled down her shoulders and into her face. Wide, deep blue eyes turned to Big Al, who had struggled to his feet and was staring at her intently. 

"I cannot believe this," Rose Thornton exclaimed in disbelief, turning her accusing eyes to the slave. "My family has been good to you! Why, my father--" 

"Owned me!" Al hissed in fury, hatred in his eyes. "And he worked me like a dog." 

"How dare you speak to Miss Rose like that!" Thomas intervened, stepping in between Pike and Al. "You will pay for that disrespect." 

"You're a traitor," Al accused. "You think you're so uppity with your fine suit and living in the mansion. She'd sell you to buy herself a new bonnet so fast--" 

"For that, you die," Gregory decreed, withdrawing his sword. 

"No!" Duncan and Rose shouted at the same time, stunning one another. 

Her eyes met his for a moment, and something flashed in their blue depths. She looked away quickly, forcing her attention back to her betrothed. "If you kill him, who will saddle my horse and clean the stables?" 

Duncan rolled his eyes at her pettiness. For a brief moment, he thought he had seen something in her. Something wise and compassionate. But obviously Rose Thornton was little more than a spoiled Southern Belle. 

"Of course, Rosie," he assured. "How thoughtless of me. But he cannot be allowed to get away with this type of deceit. He must be punished, my dear." 

"And he will be," a new voice assured. MacLeod turned to see a young boy he guessed to be in his early teens walking towards them. He was the boy he had seen in the upstairs window. The lad was long and lanky, with the features of a well-bred aristocrat. "Thomas, bring Big Al to the slave quarters. I will see to it that he is properly punished." 

"Yes, Master Paul," the older man assured, taking Al's arm and leading him away. 

Rose watched them go, sighing sadly. "You would think they would appreciate us for all we do for them, Greg. They are like children. They would be nothing without us. Why, we shelter and clothe and protect them, and yet they betray us still. They rebel more and more every day." 

"I worry for you," Pike sighed, taking her hand in his on and squeezing it. "Where it not for the presence of your brother, I would insist you leave this place and stay at my family home. My slaves there would never betray me, as Al has done to you." 

"Paul will take care of it. My brother is so good at handling these problems," she assured, turning her attention back to the slaves and their abolitionist friends. "Who are these dreadful people and what will you do with them?" 

Pike reached into his gray coat, producing a paper and offering it to her. He quickly pulled it away, stating, "My dear, I forgot. You cannot read, can you? Well, this paper is a reward posted by several local Southern gentlemen for the capture of The Shadow." 

Her eyes once again returned to MacLeod, and she questioned, "Is he The Shadow?" 

A wry smile touched Pike's lips as he coldly evaluated the bound Immortal. "I must be leaving now, Rosie. I just wanted to return your slave." 

"Of course," she dutifully insisted, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Be careful." 

She turned away from him then and walked back towards the main house. Pike swung back into the saddle of his horse and watched the gentle sway of her hips under the billowing gown as she walked away from them, her shoulders squared and her back ramrod strait. 

Yes, MacLeod thought sarcastically. She was a well-bred lady. . .or was she? For all her precision and lady like manners, her dress was in disarray, like she had put it on in haste. And she was wearing. . .boots. He curiously cocked his head for a better view as she lifted her skirt to mount the steps. Indeed, she was wearing riding boots. 

"Don't even consider it," Pike whispered in fury. "You will never have a woman like that. In fact, you will never have another woman in your life. Today, you die." 

"Then let's do it," he coldly agreed as his horse was turned and led away from Three Springs and Rose Thornton. 

* * *

MacLeod wasn't sure how long they rode, but judging from the sky, he guessed it to be several hours. Pike was leading them on what he claimed to be a shortcut back to their headquarters, but he knew better. He led them to a rather large stream. 

Pike reigned in then, glancing up at the sky and stating, "I think we might have a storm tonight, boys. Maybe even a little lightening." 

He shot MacLeod a smirk at that, his words holding a double meaning. "Water and rest your horses," he ordered. "I am going to scout upriver a bit." 

"I will look after the prisoner, Sir," a young corporal volunteered, reaching for the reigns of MacLeod's horse. 

"No. I think I will take this one with me," Pike stated, trading a look with his young officer. Lowering his voice, he insisted, "He was quite disrespectful to Miss Thornton earlier. We must teach this bounder how to behave in the presence of a lady." 

"Yes, Sir," the youth grinned, revealing rotten teeth. "I am sure you will teach him well, Colonel." 

"Indeed. A lesson he will never forget." Pike spoke meaningfully, turning his horse and leading MacLeod away from the group. 

They rode at least a mile upstream before Pike reigned in. He swung from his horse, and produced a knife, using it to cut the rope that had MacLeod's bound wrists tied to the saddle horn. He then roughly forced Duncan off the horse. 

He hit the ground hard, grunting in pain. His wrists were still bound, and he struggled to his feet. He watched as Pike walked back to his horse and retrieved MacLeod's sword. It was a standard, Union issue that had been given to him by a Northern officer. 

"I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod," he spoke. "Fight me." 

Pike laughed arrogantly, twirling the Union sword in one hand and his knife in the other. "I'm not much of a gentleman," he admitted. "I don't believe in fair fights. What do you think is more ironic, MacLeod? A Yank being killed by a Union issue saber. Or an Immortal being beheaded by his own sword. Or maybe," he held the knife up, "I will just saw your head off with this. It would certainly be more painful." 

He charged then, but Duncan was waiting for him. He stepped aside at the last moment, using his foot to trip Pike. The man fell face first into the mud, both the dagger and the sword flying from his hand. MacLeod quickly scooped up the knife and began cutting the ropes at his wrists. 

Pike quickly regained his composure, rolling to his feet and retrieving the sword. He lunged at the Scotsman, wildly swinging the blade. He ducked the assault, finally freeing his wrists. 

The enraged Colonel moved to the attack again, but stopped as the sounds of distant gunfire filled the air. The noise came from the direction of the Confederate camp. 

"Your choice," the Highlander taunted. "My head. Or your men." 

"I'll take you," Pike swore, raising the sword again. 

The bushes behind MacLeod rusted loudly, and he barely managed to duck in time as an enormous black stallion soared from the foliage. Pike wasn't as lucky. He lost his footing as the animal collided with him, falling to the ground with a curse. 

Duncan stood transfixed for a moment, stunned at the sight of the horse and its rider. The man was dressed all in black, from his riding boots to the hooded cloak, to the black hat that held the hood in place. He turned to MacLeod then, offering his gloved hand. 

From the corner of his eye, Duncan saw Pike stand, retrieving his pistol and aiming it at the back of the unknown man. MacLeod reacted quickly, hurling the knife through the air. Pike cried out in surprised outrage as the blade embedded itself deeply into his shoulder, making his shot go awry. 

The Scotsman moved quickly, racing across the wet ground and grabbing the extended hand of the man he assumed to be The Shadow. He used the momentum of his sprint to easily swing into the saddle behind the man. 

The Shadow spurred his horse. The impressive mount shot through the bushes and into the forest. Duncan held on for dear life as the wild animal and its owner raced through the dense woods and away from Pike. Twigs and leaves slapped him in the face as they rode at a breakneck pace. The black hood prevented The Shadow from seeing clearly, and Duncan belatedly realized that his rescuer didn't see the low hanging, thick branch that they were fast approaching. 

He reached around The Shadow and grabbed the reigns, pulling in hard. The Shadow grunted in surprised and tried to wrestle the reigns away from him. The stallion panicked then, bucking and jerking around hard. 

Duncan fell first landing on his back with a grunt. The Shadow landed a few feet from him, hitting hard as a black booted ankle twisted under the weight of the fall. 

The Shadow grunted in pain, reaching for the injured limb. 

"Here," MacLeod insisted, forcing his battered body to move towards the spy. If this was what that type of fall did to an Immortal, he shuddered to think how it had affected his companion. 

He reached for a black boot, but The Shadow jerked away, hissing in a low voice, "Get on the horse and ride. Go, now." 

"It wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me to leave behind the person who saved my life, now would it. . .Miss Thornton?" he questioned, feeling the shock that raced through her. 

"I don't know what you mean," the spy insisted, trying to pull away from him. 

He reached up with a swift hand and knocked the hat off. The hood fell with it to reveal the perfect beauty of Rose Thornton. Fury flashed in her blue eyes, and he smiled in the face of her anger. 

"It is an excellent cover," he readily assured. "That was a wonderful, almost convincing performance between you and Al and Thomas at the plantation. I say 'almost' because you rose too quickly to the defense of Big Al at the end. And you are a little small and slender for a man. The bulky clothing hides most of it, but it is hard to miss it when I was riding so close to you on the horse. And then there is the boots." 

"Excuse me?" she fumed, having forgotten her aching ankle. 

"You were wearing them at the plantation. I can only assume you were planning to meet with your Big Al, only they were captured. You probably followed long enough to realize that Pike was bringing Al back to you. So you raced ahead. Not too difficult considering your stallion and the convoy we were leading. You ran upstairs, changed into a pretty dress for your beau. . .but you either forgot the boots or you didn't have enough time to take them off."

"How do you know that?" she asked, her curiosity peaking. 

"Because it is what I would have done," he grudgingly admitted. "How bad is the ankle?" 

"I don't think it is broken," she admitted. "But it will slow me down. Go ahead. Before Pike catches you." 

Duncan glanced around, but he could not feel the presence of the other Immortal. "I think you lost him. Here, let me help you stand," he insisted, sliding an arm around her waist and helping her to her feet. She gingerly tested the ankle, finding she could walk on it. "I assume the shooting earlier was your friends?" 

"Yes. Big Al, Thomas, and Paul. They were trying to get our friends free. If they succeeded, then they are waiting on us." 

"Well, then, let's not keep them waiting," Duncan insisted, leading her toward the horse and helping her back into the saddle. He swung into the saddle behind her, taking the reigns, and nudging the stallion into a trot. 

* * *

**Chapter 11**

"Clarksville is a trap." 

MacLeod glanced up from the knife he was sharpening to see Rose Thornton limp through the door of the small boathouse. She had lead him here yesterday where they had found her brother Paul, Thomas, and Big Al attending to the escaped slaves they had managed to liberate. Harold Monroe had been there as well. The boathouse, Rose had explained, was the perfect cover. It was on the far end of the plantation, away from any pesky passer-bys. And Three Springs was the last place Pike would search. 

Thomas and Big Al had not been pleased to learn that he knew of her secret identity as The Shadow. For a moment, he thought Big Al was going to snap his head off the man had been so furious. Obviously, they protected their Rose. 

He had reluctantly agreed to spending an extra night on the plantation, at least until they could get some idea as how to best dodge the Rebs and get his friends North. 

"What did you say?" Al demanded. 

"Gregory told me this morning," she insisted. "He has a trap set for MacLeod at Clarksville." 

Duncan threw the knife down with a loud clang, standing as he demanded, "You went to see Pike? And you pumped him for information! Are you trying to get caught?!" 

"No one speaks to Miss Rose that way," Big Al threatened. He had been playing babysitter to this brood for too many long hours to take lip off this one. 

Rose rested her hand on his arm, assuring, "It is fine, Big Al. No, Mr. MacLeod, I did not go to see Gregory. I didn't have to. He came to me this morning. He wanted me to know that he will be leaving the state for a few weeks. He told me that the Confederate Army raided your safehouse in Clarksville. They have all of your contacts in prison there. Apparently, one of them betrayed you, MacLeod. He told them when and where you and Mr. Monroe were meeting Big Al. They were waiting for you at the grove yesterday and they will be waiting for you in Clarksville." 

Duncan exchanged a glance with Harold, who admitted, "It was fairly convenient that they knew exactly where in the grove we would be." 

"The Confederacy is keeping it quiet for the moment. They don't want word to reach the Underground Railroad that they have raided Clarksville. Apparently, they are rather determined to catch The Shadow--to catch me--and they think Clarksville is their best chance. If you two deliver the runaways on schedule, then they will capture you. And they hope you will lead them back to me. There is a regiment waiting for you at the safehouse, and Gregory is taking his troops to Clarksville as we speak. He believes you have already lit out to your destination and he is hoping to either catch up with you, or force you into the arms of the Confederate Army." 

"Great," MacLeod sighed. "What do we do now? Our contacts in Clarksville was the only chance we had to get these people to freedom" 

"You will use one of our friends," Rose suggested. 

"No," Thomas snapped, joining the conversation. "Our contacts only trust us, Miss Rose. You know that. They will only agree to help if it is me or Big Al bringing the runaways to them." 

"Then one of you will go with them," she suggested simply. "Big Al can go. Besides, they need someone to show them the way. Of course, it will take twice the time to get to our friends than it would to Clarksville. It's a dangerous trek through the heart of Rebel country, and you will travel exclusively at night. It will take at least a few weeks. Is time an issue?" 

"Yes," MacLeod admitted. "I have to meet with a friend of mine in four weeks. He is bringing some more runaways out of Texas. Clarksville would have given me time to get these to safety and then be back here. If no one is here to meet him. . ." 

"I will," Thomas volunteered. "We can hide them on the plantation until you return." 

"No," Duncan sighed. "He only trusts me. And there is no way to get a message to him." 

"Then there is only one way to solve this," Rose suggested. "With Pike gone, we have no fear of him showing up at the plantation unexpectedly. So Big Al will take Harold and the runaways to our friends. You can stay on the plantation with us, Mr. MacLeod. That way you can meet with your friend when the time comes." 

Duncan started to object, but Harold butted in. "It could work. I can get in touch with the Underground Railroad by them and establish us another contact. By the time I return, you and the other runaways will be ready to head North." 

"I don't like it," Big Al insisted, warily eyeing MacLeod. "I don't like him. And I don't want him alone with Miss Rose." 

She smiled at that, revealing a dimple in her left cheek as she assured, "If I can handle Gregory Pike, I can certainly handle a damn Yankee." 

"I'll go make the arrangements," Thomas intervened, leading Al and Monroe out of the tiny boathouse. 

"It is Highlander, by the way," Duncan stated when they were alone. 

"What is?" Rose asked. 

"Me. I'm from the Highlands of Scotland," he corrected, walking to stand in front of her. "So I am a bloody barbarian, not a damn Yankee." 

She laughed at his attempt to intimidate her. She didn't fear him. Perhaps that was her own folly, but she couldn't imagine how anyone could fear a man with such warmth in his eyes. "And, in truth, I am a country bumpkin. Not a Southern Belle." 

He smiled at that, softening his features. She judged him to be a decent looking man, although it was hard to tell under all the trail dust, long hair, and scruffy beard. Suddenly turning serious, she asked, "When I helped you escape Gregory yesterday, I thought. . .I mean. . .didn't you wound him with a knife? I could have sworn you did, but today. . .he had no injury. He didn't even flinch when I touched his shoulder where you had hit him with the knife." 

She didn't know, MacLeod realized. Pike had not told her what he was. The thought left him cold inside. This slip of a girl had no idea the true danger she was flirting with. Spying and abolitionist work was treacherous enough, but betraying an Immortal could cost Rose Thornton her life. 

"My aim must have been off," he lied. He took her arm then and steered her toward the outdoors to rejoin their friends. Perhaps it was best that he stayed behind. Someone had to protect this girl when Gregory Pike returned. And Pike would be back. He knew it with every fiber of his being. 

* * *

**Chapter 12**

For all the grandeur of the outside of the Three Springs Plantation, the inside was surprisingly bare. MacLeod sensed that it had not always been that way, though. The war had obviously taken a toll on the wealth of the Thornton family, and many heirlooms and valuables had probably been sacrificed to put food on the table and crops in the garden. 

In the last few days, he had learned that this family was willing to make sacrifices. None were above working hard to keep Three Springs striving. He himself had helped Paul and Thomas in the fields. Tobacco and cotton, Thomas had stated, was the only way they had left to make money. Without it, they would surely lose everything. 

So he had helped the men, which included at least a dozen former slaves. They stayed willingly, one had told him. They were free men, but they were under no delusions that the world outside of the South would be any kinder to a black man. They chose to stay because Miss Rose had offered them a place at Three Springs. Each an acre of land all his own. To build a home or start a family. Anything they pleased with it. In return, they helped the Thornton family work the land. 

He had been surprised to find Rose herself in the fields. That is, when she and the other women weren't tending to the garden that provided the food for the residents. 

And so it was, after a long day's work, a hot meal, and a refreshing bath in the river, that Duncan MacLeod found himself in the doorway of the main parlor, admiring the fetching sight of Rose Thornton. 

She sat on the plush settee of the main parlor, her feet tucked underneath her. The light from the lantern sparkled off her red hair, enhancing the gold highlights. She was deeply engrossed in the book she was reading-- 

A memory flashed though his mind. Pike had insinuated she couldn't read. Apparently, the man knew little about this woman. He just knew what he wanted to believe about her. 

"You shouldn't do that," he scowled when she began chewing on her fingernail. "It's a bad habit." 

She started in surprise, smiling a bit nervously. She had once thought he might be a decent looking man if he ever shaved and bathed. She had been wrong. He was beautiful. Long, soft black hair curled around his shoulders, framing a face she imagined she could never grow weary of looking at. 

Forcing her thoughts away from him, she admitted, "Alice scolds me about that all the time." 

"Ah, yes, Alice," he sighed, referring to the cook and housekeeper. He walked into the parlor and took a seat across from her, admitting, "I volunteered to help Alice with cleaning up the kitchen, but she practically threw me out. I don't think she likes me very much." 

"She is worried about Al," Rose confided. "She is quite fond of him. And she hates the risks he takes. That we all take." 

"It is dangerous work that you do," he pointed out. Curious, he turned his head to get a look at the book she was reading. "Robert Burns. An excellent selection." 

"And what do you know of poetry?" she asked. 

With a knowing smile, he quoted in a heavy Scottish brogue: 

"O my luve's like a red, red rose.   
That's newly sprung in June;   
O my luve's like a meoldie that's sweetly played in tune. 

"As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,   
So deep in love am I;   
And I will love thee still, my Dear,   
Till a'the seas gang dry. 

"Till a'the gang dry, my Dear,   
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:   
I will love thee still, my Dear,   
While the sands o'life shall run. 

"And fare thee weel, my only Luve!   
And fare thee weel a while!   
And I will come again, my Luve!   
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!" 

Rose smiled, visibly impressed, "So you are an educated man, Mr. MacLeod?" 

"Call me Duncan," he invited, reaching for the book. "Actually, I prefer this--" 

"Wait," she started to protest as he pulled the book from her hands. A small pamphlet fell from inside the book. 

He reached for it, belatedly realizing that she had been using the book of poems to hide what she was really reading. He picked up the pamphlet, raising a surprised eyebrow to her. "This is very controversial." 

"I know," she assured, snatching the paper from his hands. "Thomas and Paul think I am foolish for reading these things." 

"You should meet my friend Alec Hill," he laughed. "He believes religiously in such." 

"Truly?" she asked in surprise. "And what of you? Do you believe in the immortality of the soul?" 

"I believe some things defy reason and logic," he admitted. "But reincarnation. . .I don't know, Miss Thornton. That is a far reach. To believe that a soul lives on and on. To believe that it is reborn every century. That one soul can live a hundred different lives, as a different person." 

"I think it would be wonderful," she stated softly. "To be born again, literally. To live a whole new life as someone else. Somewhere else." 

"But it wouldn't be you, exactly," he disagreed. "It would be your soul. The new _you_ would have different memories. Live a different life with different people." 

"This author doesn't think so," she disagreed. "He thinks you carry all your knowledge and wisdom with you into your next life. Even the same memories. They are embedded deep within, but still there. He also thinks that you have one special love. Your soul mate. And that you find that love in every life you live. Do you think that is possible? To have one love that you find over and over again?" 

Memories flooded him so unexpectedly that they took him by surprise. He had loved many times. And lost them all. Debra Campbell, his first love. He had loved her long before he even knew what the word meant. She had been raised with him in the Highlands. He shuddered at the memory of the tragic accident that had cost her death years before he had learned of his own Immortality. 

Louise Barton. How beautiful she had been. God, how me missed her. 

Vashti Asirvatham and Theresa del Gloria. Theresa. . .he would have gladly spent every day of her mortal life loving her. But the Immortal Consone had taken her from him. And then the monster had taken Theresa's life. He hadn't loved since Theresa. He hadn't even entertained the possibility. 

And Vashti. . .hadn't she once asked him those same questions? Immortality of the soul? Rose reminded him of Vashti in some ways. She had the same gentle spirit. The same hint of shyness that Louise Barton had had. The same playful sparkle in her eyes that his Debra had had. 

He forced himself back to reality. He was being a sentimental fool tonight. Debra was dead. He had seen her die himself. And so were Louise and Vashti. If Rose reminded him of his past loves, then it was a coincidence. 

Realizing she was still waiting for an answer, he finally stated, "I believe that love is rare and precious. And that if you find it, you hold to it with everything you have. And if it is lost, you remember it often. You cherish those memories. And then you move on. If you're lucky, you love again someday." 

Rose sensed a deep sadness in him. She knew, somewhere deep inside of her, she knew he had lost much. "I hope you love again, Duncan," she stated softly. "That is my wish for you." 

His eyes met hers, held them for a moment. In that moment, he knew he would love again. It was inevitable. 

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Duncan MacLeod awoke to a steady fall of rain against the windowpane. It was a dreary, rainy Sunday. Rose had told him the night before that Sunday was their day off. No one worked in the gardens or fields that day. 

He wasn't sure what he would do with a whole day to himself, he thought. Rolling from the bed, he pulled on his pants and walked to the window. He pushed the curtain back and stilled at the sight that greeted him. The entire back yard was filled with Confederate soldiers. Fear for Rose filled him. He didn't sense the presence of another Immortal. But that didn't mean Pike wasn't nearby. 

He tugged on his shirt and raced from the room. Thomas had told him that weapons were kept in the study, and he quickly raided it, taking several pistols and an old saber before rushing down the stairs. He entered the kitchen, surprised to find Alice grumbling as she stood over the stove, stirring a huge pot of rice. 

Alice glanced up, sighing, "Go and put those things away before you get us all killed." 

"But the Rebs--" 

"The girl is gonna drive us all to starvation. Giving away the food we break our backs for and. . ." 

Duncan tuned her out as he walked past her to the back door. It was slightly ajar and he peeked out. 

Rose was feeding them, he belatedly realized. The soldiers looked exhausted and demoralized. The injured ones were on the porch, being sheltered from the rain, while Paul and Thomas were tending to their haggard horses. 

He curiously eyed the leader of the cavalry. He was a relatively young man, but too many of the South's soldiers were little more then children these days. There was a coldness to him, though. He had the eyes of a man who had seen too much war and death in only a few short years. 

Rose was kneeling beside one young officer, gingerly changing the bandage on his injured shoulder. "You should change this every day," she advised. "Otherwise, you might get an infection. Now, what about that leg?" 

"Nothing you can do for that, Miss Thornton," the soldier stated sadly, flexing his stiff leg. "That is a permanent souvenir from Gettysburg." 

"You were there?" she questioned sympathetically. "I heard it went hard. So many lives lost." 

"It did," the Colonel spoke up. "We were under General Stuart's command." 

"J.E.B. Stuart?" she questioned. "We've heard tales about his rides around McClellan. Is it true you did it twice?" 

"Yes," the Colonel acknowledged. "We covered a hundred miles in four days. The first one was a success. The second lead us into a pretty nasty battle. Unfortunately, General Stuart was trying to redeem himself for that when Gettysburg broke out. We rode too far, the Yank Army got between us and General Lee. We were cut off and couldn't warn General Lee about Hooker's army. When he didn't hear from us, he assumed all was well and he led his army forward. He walked blindly into Gettysburg. Yes, Miss Thornton, it went hard. And it has gone downhill since." 

"Will you be traveling far, Colonel Jackson?" she asked of him. 

Jackson. The name ran through MacLeod's head. Colonel Colt Jackson, he realized. So this was the famed and feared Confederate officer he had heard of. A ranch hand from Texas who had soared through the ranks thanks to his master horsemanship and his ability to take no mercy on the Yanks. A harsh man to the enemy, the North accused. A fair man to his own, the South insisted. The man no one could kill. On that, both sides agreed. But this one was no Immortal. He was close enough to know that. 

"We're headed to Atlanta," he spoke in his slow, Texas drawl. "General Hood needs a little help protecting the city." 

"So Sherman is closing in, after all," Rose concluded with a sigh. "If Atlanta falls. . ." 

"The South falls," Jackson finished when her voice trailed off. "You should consider getting the hell out of Georgia, ma'am. The Confederacy will fight Sherman tooth and nail for Atlanta, but if the other side wins, then Sherman has an open path to march strait to the sea. He'll destroy anything in his way." 

"Then I guess he will have to burn this place down around me, because I am not leaving, Colonel. This is my home, and Sherman can march around it or kill me going though it. The choice is his." 

A hint of an admiration touched his dark eyes as he admitted, "He might just do that, ma'am. Don't say you weren't warned." 

"But that is what we are relying on you for," she reminded. "To keep Sherman out of Atlanta. And not get yourself killed in the process." 

"Haven't you heard?" Colt Jackson asked with a half-smile. "I'm the man you can't kill." 

Rose turned to reply, but stopped short at the sight of MacLeod watching her. Her eyes shot him a clear warning to stay out of view. He took a step away from the door, ensuring that the soldiers couldn't see him, but that he could still hear what was being said. 

A young girl pushed past him and onto the porch, several loaves of bread in her hand. Rose took them and gave them to Jackson. "I wish I had more to offer you." 

"You have done more than enough. But I hate to take your food--" 

"Nonsense. I insist that you do." 

"You are good woman," a young soldier praised. "We couldn't ask for anyone better supporting our Cause." 

She looked away before he could see the guilt in her eyes, admitting, "We all have our causes, Sir." 

Turning to the Colonel, she insisted, "Please, make yourself at home. I need to check on something. I will be back in a moment." 

Gathering her skirts, she brushed past him and into the main house. She refused to look at MacLeod, turning her attentions only to Alice. Her voice had a noticeable quiver as she requested, "When the rice is done, give it to them. They will be on their way then." 

Duncan watched her turn and rush from the room. He followed her to the conservatory, where he found her sitting alone, tears on her cheeks. 

"Don't cry," he insisted, sitting down beside her and placing a consoling hand on her shoulder. 

"You must think I am the world's biggest hypocrite," she spoke. "One minute I am betraying the Confederacy by spying on Gregory and helping escaped slaves. And then the next I am feeding their soldiers on the back doorsteps." 

"I think you are compassionate and wise," Duncan refuted, his dark eyes filling with warmth as he watched her. "I think, if both sides were a little more like you, we wouldn't be fighting this war to being with." 

She felt her face flush under his praise, admitting, "Whatever wisdom I have, I only gained a few years ago. No, Mr. MacLeod, you are dreadfully mistaken. I am not wise, just too naive for my own good." 

"I don't believe that." 

She laughed at the determination in his voice, brushing a stray lock of red hair from her face as she confided, "I have lived at Three Springs all of my life. In truth, I have rarely been out of the county, and never out of the state. I was sheltered and protected. Oh, I heard the men talk of war, but I never conceived it possible. My father was. . .he wasn't a bad man," she searched for the right words. "But neither was he perfect. He owned slaves and he bought and sold them and used them to do his labor. But he never mistreated them. He never beat them or separated them from their families or intentionally hurt them. So I foolishly assumed all the South was like him. And I assumed that, because he was good to his slaves, that they didn't mind being slaves. It was a lifestyle I had never questioned. I had never been taught to question it." 

"But you obviously do. Now," Duncan pointed out. "Why?" 

Rose hesitated visibly, but then admitted, "Because of the man you met last week. Colonel Gregory Pike." 

He seized the opportunity to discuss the other Immortal, requesting, "Tell me all you know about him." 

"A few years ago, I would have told you I knew everything about him," she laughed bitterly, absently twisting the engagement ring on her finger. "Today I will tell you that I know nothing. He settled in our county five years ago. He bought the old Mason plantation. He was dashing and mysterious. Every woman in the county vied for his attention. I was barely fourteen, but hopelessly taken with him. My family traveled to our neighbor, Mr. Walker's, plantation for the wedding of his son. I convinced my parents that I was old enough to stay up for the ball that night. Gregory asked me to dance. Quite the scandal," she laughed, but the sound was distant and sad. "I was the gossip of the county for weeks. Anyhow, that same night, one of the local girls was found in a--shall we say--delicate situation. She was barely clothed in the stables with a local gentleman. The problem being, they were both wed to other people. The gentleman told his story of how he had heard her scream and raced into the stable to save her from being ravished by a field hand." 

"You sound disbelieving," he pressed when she grew silent. 

"Everyone knew of her reputation. To save face, her husband demanded the Negro be dealt with. She pointed out an innocent man, and he was hung that night for all the guests to see," she finished, her eyes dark and haunted at the memory. "You see, Mr. MacLeod, I know the man was innocent because I had seen him sneaking food from the kitchen at the same time her 'attack' was underway. I even helped him gather some of the food. I couldn't believe how skinny all the slaves were. They looked like they were barely fed. I was horrified that Mr. Walker could treat them so. I tried to tell everyone that the man was innocent, but my father told me to hush up. He said we had to do what was best for the sake of appearances. He felt a Southern woman's reputation was more valuable than a Negro's life. He ordered me upstairs. Only I snuck out instead, and hid in the gardens. Gregory found me there, crying. He was kind and gentle. He listened to me and believed me. He acted as horrified as I felt that our friends and neighbors could be so callous. And then he kissed me." 

"What did you do?" Duncan curiously asked. 

"I slapped him, naturally," she laughed to hide the tears that her reminiscing had brought to her eyes. "It was the only proper thing to do. I am a lady, you know. He apologized. . .and then kissed me again. He paid call to me the next day. My father agreed to our becoming engaged, but he insisted on a long engagement before he would allow his blessing. I suppose he thought I was too young to know my own mind, and wanted to give me time in case I decided to change it. I had no intentions of that. I was taken with Gregory. He was worldly and sophisticated. He had seen places I could only dream of. He had been to countries I had only read about. He was full of praise for me and compliments. He lavished me with jewelry and gifts. He imported a lace shawl from Paris once. I remember he presented it to me one afternoon at his home during evening tea. It was beautiful. . .until one of the servants accidentally spilled tea on it. I assured Greg it would come clean, and he seemed appeased. He didn't even seem angry with the girl. Only. . ." 

"Only what?" he questioned. 

"A few nights later, I went in search of my mother. Someone said they had seen her near the stables. I found her there. With the girl. Sarah, was her name. She had been beaten. . .and raped, repeatedly," Rose recalled, her face pale at the recollection. "That night was full of revelations for me. One was that my mother was an abolitionist. The other was that my betrothed was a cruel, evil man. My mother did not know that the girl was one of Gregory's slaves, so she related to me all the horrid details that Sarah had told her. She did it to ensure my silence about her working with the Underground Railroad. No one knew, she said. Not even my father. So I helped her to help others to freedom. A few days later, when Sarah was lucid enough to talk, she told my mother that Greg was her master. My mother was horrified. She was going to break my engagement with him, only she fell ill and died. So I took her place. I became the contact used to help the slaves North. Big Al helped, as did Thomas. And my brother, Paul, eventually. Through the ones I helped, I witnessed the true evil of slavery. The barbaric treatments. The anguish and pain. Even the death. Often I wanted to fling Gregory's ring back in his face. Only by then he had become a fountain of useful information. He assumes me to still be the ignorant, silly girl he found crying in a garden five years ago. He has no idea that I use everything he says to me and in front of me against him." 

Fear for her suddenly twisted his stomach into a knot. She had no idea just what she was doing in betraying Gregory Pike. He was an Immortal. A concept she had no understanding of. He shuddered to think of what Pike would do to her if he found out. 

"You have to stop this," he surprised both of them with his deceleration and the possessiveness he felt for her. "Pike is a dangerous man. If he ever found out--" 

"He won't," she assured, cutting him off. "He hasn't a clue, Mr. MacLeod. And I will do everything possible to ensure he never does." 

She stood then, gathering her skirts as she tried to walk past him. He caught her delicate wrist in his hand. It was not a cruel grasp, but firm enough to force her to turn and face him. 

"Will you marry him?" he demanded. "Will you go that far?" 

"If it will save the lives of others, then yes," she stated honestly. "I have pledged my life to this. And my life I will give it." 

"The war can't last forever," he reminded, standing to his feet. He was startled to realize just how small and petite she actually was. He imagined her head would barely reach the center of his chest. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. The light from the lantern played across her face, and he wanted so badly to caress her smooth cheek. Realizing he was still holding her hand, he brought it to his lips for a kiss, decreeing, "You deserve better." 

Rose's eyes clung to his face, unable to look away. "You shouldn't have done that, Sir," she scolded, but didn't try to pull her hand away from his. 

"I know," he grinned. 

A voice was cleared loudly from behind them, and they jumped apart. An embarrassed Rose turned to see Thomas standing in the doorway, a clearly disapproving frown on his face. "The soldiers are getting ready to leave, but they wanted to thank you first." 

"Certainly," she stated, trying not to sound as flustered as she felt. She dared a glance over her shoulder at MacLeod. "We'll talk more later." 

"Certainly, Rose," he whispered huskily, his dark eyes clinging to her face. 

She blushed, and then hastily made her leave from the room. He then forced his attention back to the elderly man, who was still scowling at him. 

"Miss Rose has enough trouble without you adding to it," Thomas insisted. 

"I don't mean to cause her any trouble," the Scotsman assured. 

"I know. But you will," the old man predicted on an ominous voice. "I have a bad feeling about you, MacLeod. I think you will cause her more trouble than any of us can imagine." 

* * *

**Chapter 14**

The gala was marvelous. Couples danced around her to the orchestra's music. Shelby looked around in bewilderment. She wasn't sure where she was or why she was here. 

"What do you think of the celebration, my dear?" a voice asked from beside her, and she turned to meet the eyes of Gregory Pike. 

"It's like a dream. I keep thinking I will wake up. . ." 

Wake up. . . 

"What do you know of this man? And what do you know of me?" the man with cold, cold blue eyes had asked, holding up a photo of a man with dark hair. She had seen him before. He had hidden in a doorway while she talked to a Confederate soldier. 

"I'm the man you can't kill," the soldier had said. 

Cold Eyes had liked that. He had laughed and repeated it over and over. _I'm the man you can't kill._

"When I count to three you will wake up," Dr. Greenlee's voice flooded her mind. 

Wake up. . . 

Wake up. . . 

"Wake up, Shelby," a gentle hand shook her from the disturbing dream. A dream of ballrooms and soldiers who couldn't die and doctors whom hypnotized and a man with cold, cold blue eyes. 

"You have to wake up now," the voice insisted, interrupting her thoughts. 

"What?" she groggily questioned, rolling over in her bed and then sitting up in surprise. "Richie! What are you doing here?" 

Sparkling blue eyes smiled back at her. She glanced around the room, wondering if she was dreaming again. How did he get into her room? Her room. . .Oh, God, he knew! He knew that she was a patient in a mental hospital. How badly he must think of her! 

He seemed to sense her thoughts for he placed a gentle hand against her cheek, assuring, "Don't be scared." 

She refused to look him in the eyes as she mumbled, "You know." 

"I know a lot of things, Shelby," he assured. "Do you trust me?" 

"Of course I do, Richie," she laughed at the ridiculous question. "With my life." 

"Then I need you to trust me now like never before. I want you to pack your things and come with me. There is a passport and ticket for you in Greenlee's office. I want you to take it and go to Paris." 

"Paris? Richie, this is insane," she shook her head in disbelief. "Why would I go to Paris? I can't just run away from here." 

"I need you to do this," he insisted, cupping her face in both hands. His blue eyes implored her, and she felt her resolve melt as he whispered, "Do this for me. Please." 

It was the "please" that was her undoing. Nodding, she assured, "I will. I would do anything for you." 

A beautiful smile stretched across his boyish face. "Good. Now, I need you to go to a man there. His name is Duncan MacLeod. He is very good friend of mine. I need you to tell him that Richie Ryan says he is in danger. And so are you. Tell him that I want him to keep you safe. Tell him he owes me this." 

"But if he is your friend, can't you tell him yourself?" 

He seemed to hesitate, searching for the right words, and finally stating, "Something happened between Mac and me a few years back. I can't talk to him anymore. Not like I use to. But you have to make him listen to you. Please, Shelby, promise me you will make him listen to you." 

"I promise," she vowed. "You will come with me, right?" 

"I can make sure you get to the airport," he sighed. "But that is as far as I can go right now." 

"Richie. . .this doesn't make any sense. You're scaring me." 

He enveloped her in his strong arms then, pulling her close and tucking her head underneath his chin. She rested her cheek against his solid chest, hoping to feel his heartbeat-- 

"I know this is frightening," he interrupted her thoughts. "But trust me. Mac will keep you safe. Maybe I can join you in a few days." 

"I don't want to say good--" he cut her words off by placing a finger to her lips. 

"What have I told you in the past?" he reminded. "We don't say 'good-bye'." 

She smiled then, taken back by the pure serenity in his face. He looked so peaceful. So beautiful that sometimes she feared he wasn't even real. Just another delusion she was prone to have. 

He was her friend. Nothing more, nothing less. There had been a brief time that she had thought they would become more, but it seemed sacrilegious to even entertain those thoughts now. Richie Ryan had become her strength. Her shoulder to cry on. Someone who always seemed to appear when she needed him most. She felt a deep love for him. Not a romantic love, but something deeper. A connection even she couldn't fully comprehend, much less understand. 

He stood from the bed then and offered her his hand. She didn't hesitate to accept it. Paris and Duncan MacLeod awaited. 

* * *

**Chapter 15**

Duncan MacLeod swung open the door to Joe's bar and strolled in. Methos was sitting at a small table in the corner, and he walked to him, inquiring, "Where's Joe?" 

"I haven't a clue," he sighed, waiting until the other man had taken the chair opposite him before continuing. "I suppose he left you the same 'urgent message' he left me? I rush over here, and he is nowhere in sight. Furthermore--" 

The ringing of a cell phone cut him off. Reaching into his coat, he retrieved the phone and barked, "This is Pierson. What do you want?" 

MacLeod sensed the change in his friend. The sudden stiffness, and then the shout of, "How the hell did that happen?!. . .I don't want your excuses! You should have called me the moment you noticed!. . .Just-just don't do anything yet. I'm on the next flight." 

"Is something wrong?" Duncan asked. 

"Yes," he sighed, standing abruptly. "Look, tell Joe that I had to leave the country. I'll be in contact." 

"Methos," he called as the man raced towards the door. "What can I do?" 

"Nothing, MacLeod," he insisted. "This is personal. But thanks for asking." 

Turning back to the table, he ordered a drink from a young waitress. The message Joe had left on his answering machine was concerning him. Joe was not one to exaggerate, and he had sounded very troubled. 

Dawson stepped through the door then, nodding for MacLeod to follow him. He stood and walked to the back room that Joe used as an office. 

"We've got trouble," he sighed, closing the door behind him. "Where is Methos? He should be here to hear this." 

"Something just came up," MacLeod shrugged. "He lit out of here like a flash. Said he had to leave the country, but he would be in touch. What's wrong, Joe?" 

Dawson sighed heavily, eyeing his friend. When he joined the Watchers, he took an oath to observe, record, but never interfere. Others had taken that oath, as well, and betrayed it. He would not let their betrayal hurt his friend. 

"Some of Horton's old followers are on the move, Mac," he admitted. "A man named Sean Crane. He was close to James. Very close. When the Watchers began rooting out Horton's people, his name came up. He was never formally charged with anything, but he was still demoted. We've been keeping tabs on him without his knowledge ever since. A few months ago, he had a meeting with an Immortal. Gregory Pike." 

MacLeod felt himself grow cold at the mere mention of the name. "Pike," he hissed softly. "Where is he, Joe?" 

He took a step back, startled by the sheer hatred in the face of the other man. "We don't know. He managed to elude his Watcher shortly after the visit with Crane. Our Superiors in the States were going to confront Crane with it, but someone from inside tipped him off. He went underground. I had a meeting with our European Superiors this morning. They seem to think that Crane is in France." 

"You think he is coming after me," MacLeod stated, rather than asked. 

"I know he is coming after you," Dawson insisted. "The man who we caught trying to steal your book from the archives was traced to Crane. Crane was a close friend and supporter of James Horton. He will want to avenge James' death. His meeting with Pike would suggest they are plotting against you. And. . .we think it is possible that one of our higher ups, a psychiatrist named Ben Greenlee, is working with them. Our people in the States are questioning him as we speak. He isn't talking, but a search of his office revealed some references to James and you in his notes. They are turning his office inside out for anything else they can find." 

"Thanks for the warning," MacLeod acknowledged. "I appreciate it. But I hope they come after me. Especially Pike." 

His friend studied him for a moment, wanting to ask about Pike and Rose Thornton. But he decided not to press too far. "Just be careful, Mac. Watch your head." 

* * *

**Chapter 16**

Dawson was sitting the chairs on the tables, preparing to close his bar for the evening the night that she walked in. 

It had been three days since his conversation with Duncan. He had had one brief, confusing phone call from Methos yesterday. All he had managed to wrangle from Methos was that he was on his way back to Paris. And he had had a half dozen calls from his fellow Watchers. Greenlee was still not talking, but they had cracked his personal safe in his home and his office that morning and were going through his "secret files". Both Pike and Crane had disappeared. No one had caught sight of them in days. The Watchers had come close two days ago. So damn close. . . 

Watcher Brett Anderson, right hand man of Sean Crane, had been spotted. The Watchers had given chase, but Brett had slammed his car into a tree to prevent capture. Anderson was dead, and Crane was in hiding. He should feel better. But he didn't. 

And that feeling intensified when the door swung open and a beautiful young blonde entered. 

"I'm sorry. We're closed," Dawson apologized. 

"I'm not here for a drink," she stated nervously. "You're Joe Dawson, aren't you?" 

"Yes. And you are. . .?" 

"Shelby," she extended her hand, which he took. "I'm a friend of Richie Ryan's." 

Joe felt as if the breath had been knocked from him. Taking a moment to compose himself, he pulled a chair from the table and set it down for her. "Have a seat. Let me get you something to drink." 

"Water would be nice," she accepted. 

"I think I need something a little stronger, myself," he muttered, walking to the bar and pouring himself a strong scotch. "So, you knew Richie, huh? He never mentioned you, uh, Sherry, was it?" 

"Shelby," she corrected, accepting the glass of ice water with a nod of thanks. Richie had told her all about MacLeod and Dawson on their walk to the airport several days ago. She had been surprised to find a passport and plane ticket with her name on it in Greenlee's office, just like Richie had said there would be. There had also been nearly five thousand dollars in Greenlee's desk drawer. Richie had instructed her to take the money. She had been against it at first, but he had been so insistent. 

Forcing her thoughts aside, she began, "Richie told me all about you, Mr. Dawson, and your bar here in Paris. Only he forget to mention just where it Paris it was. I was beginning to think I would never find it." 

"Richie told you about this place, huh?" he questioned, feeling his suspicion rise. He had bought this place in Paris _after_ Richie's death. She was lying. "Yeah. Good old Richie. How long did you know him?" 

"I've known him a little over two years," Shelby admitted. "He told me about another friend of his, Duncan MacLeod. Do you know where I can find him?" 

Dawson was on the verge of telling her he knew nothing about a man named MacLeod when the door swung open. He bit back a curse as the Highlander stepped into his establishment. She turned to see the newcomer. He was familiar to her somehow. Where had she seen him before? 

Duncan stopped short, feeling the blood drain from his face. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't real. _She_ couldn't be real. But she was. . . 

Rose. His Rose. Here in Paris. 

"Mr. MacLeod?" she asked, standing from her chair and walking towards him. 

He jerked back to reality then, stepping away from her as if she scalded him just with her presence. 

"Mac," Joe called in concern, stepping in between the two. "This is Shelby. She came to Paris in search of you. She says she is a friend of Richie's." 

"I see," he stated through clenched teeth. "Have a seat. Tell me what I can do for you, Miss. . .?" 

"Please, call me Shelby," she implored, doing as instructed. She took a sip of her water before beginning. "I know this is odd for you, to just have some person you have never meet in your life drop in out of the blue, but Richie asked me to. He thinks you are in danger. He wanted me to warn you." 

"Did he?" Duncan skeptically questioned. "And when did he tell you this?" 

"A few nights ago," she admitted. 

"A few night ago?!" Dawson exploded in fury, but received a silencing glare from MacLeod. 

"I know this sounds crazy," she admitted. "And I wouldn't blame you if you doubted me. I don't know why Richie didn't come here himself, but he said he couldn't. He really believes that you are in danger. And he thinks that I am in danger, too. He. . .he said he wants you to keep me safe. That you owe him this." 

"Joe," MacLeod called in a surprisingly calm voice. "Call Baron LeMartin and see if he and Marina have an extra room in their hotel that they can put Shelby in for the night." 

"Sure," he nodded, moving to the bar and reaching for the phone. 

Turning back to her, he insisted, "It's a lovely place. An old château that Richie and I helped turned into a hotel. The Baron and his granddaughter are friends of ours." 

"You don't have to do this," she said. "In fact, I already have a hotel room and-- 

"No, I insist," MacLeod interrupted. "If this is what _Richie_ wants, then I have to keep you safe, right?" 

"I'm a bit embarrassed by this. I don't know why Richie didn't contact you himself. But he seemed to feel that you wouldn't listen to him if he tried. He said you were a good friend of his, but I get the feeling you haven't spoken to him in quite some time." 

"It's been awhile," he assured. 

Shelby pulled away from him then, literally feeling his intense wrath and hatred. It seemed aimed at her. Again, she was struck by the feeling that she had seen him before. Hesitantly, she asked, "Have we ever met?" 

He smiled, but she sensed it was forced. His eyes took on a cold hardness as he inquired, "Now why would you ask a question like that?" 

"The Baron is getting a room ready for you as we speak," Joe interrupted. "And I've already called you a cab. It should be here any minute." 

"You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble, really. In fact, I think I will go back to the States tonight," she decided. She had a strange feeling about this. About these two. They were hiding something from her. 

"Nonsense," the Scotsman disagreed. "If I am to keep you safe, then you have to stay in Paris." 

By God, how foolish was she, Shelby thought. To come here and search for two men she didn't know. A request from their "friend" whom they were barely acknowledging. How well did she really know Richie Ryan? And what had he gotten her into? 

"Well, that was quick," MacLeod interrupted her thoughts, glancing out the door as a cab rolled to a stop. 

"They said they had a driver already in the area," Dawson explained, taking her arm. "I'll walk you out." 

"One of us will be by to check on you tomorrow," Duncan called to her back, standing and walking to the bar. He poured himself a strong drink. He swallowed half of it in a single gulp, grimacing as it burned a path to his stomach. 

He glanced out the window to see Shelby being ushered into the cab. It seemed impossible the resemblance she bore to Rose Thornton. A manufactured resemblance, perhaps? After all, Horton had arranged for a Tessa look-a-like. Was it so far-fetched that Sean Crane and Gregory Pike would have a double for Rose? Pike's sick way of twisting the knife. 

Joe stepped back into the bar then, hesitantly stating, "Mac, please tell me you are not buying this?" 

"Richie is dead, Joe," he insisted. "We both know that." 

"Then why not call her on it?" 

"And spoil Pike's fun?" he turned then, anger burning in his eyes. 

"I'll see if I can find out who she really is," Dawson volunteered. 

"She's the perfect double of Rose Thornton, that is who she is," Duncan replied. "Part of Pike and Crane's master plan, I am assuming. Having the book sent to me at Richie's grave was phase one. She is phase two." 

"And phase three?" Dawson hesitantly asked. 

"Phase three is the kill," MacLeod stated softly, sitting his glass down and walking from the bar. 

* * *

**Chapter 17**

Sean Crane crept down the alley, slipping into the door of the small warehouse on the south side of Paris. Gregory Pike was irritably pacing the poorly lit room. 

"My friend Anderson is dead," he hissed. "And they have Greenlee." 

"The fool," Pike hissed. "This is all his fault! How could he send Shelby to Paris without your permission? It wasn't time for her to encounter MacLeod!" 

"We don't know Greenlee did it," Crane defended, hating to think his friend had betrayed them this deep into their plans. 

"Who else could it have been? He was the only one who could have given her that passport and ticket and sent her here! Now your Watcher friends are crawling all over us. We barely made it into the country without being caught. And you still haven't found Shelby yet, have you?" 

Crane felt his ire rise in the face of this man's demands. "My people know she is in the city. We will find her. And even if we don't. . .Maybe this is a sign. This plan isn't working. We need to pack it in and try again later." 

"No!" Pike shouted at him. "I have waited over a century for the head of MacLeod. I am not leaving Paris without it." 

Crane watched him storm off. Maybe he was right. It was well past time that he avenged the death of James Horton. Yes, MacLeod would die. Then Pike would follow him. And, he thought with a touch of cryptic humor, he would bury Shelby Donovan between them. They could spend their afterlife fighting over her, just as they had spent their Immortal lives fighting over Rose Thornton. 

* * *

**Chapter 18**

Duncan MacLeod fidgeted with the control of his heating unit, unable to shake the chill that was in his barge this morning. It was early spring and still a bit cool in Paris, but this morning was unusually cold. Or maybe it was just the chill in his soul. 

Last night's encounter with Shelby had left him cold inside. She had left him with so many memories. Of Rose. Of Pike. Even of Richie. 

It was no wonder he had had such a restless night's sleep. Or that his dreams had been haunted by Rose. And Richie. He had dreamed Richie was here, standing in this very spot, trying to warn him of something. 

What type of sick game was Crane and Pike playing? Or did he even need to ask. They were searching for his weaknesses. Pike knew Rose was one. And the Watchers knew Richie was another. Where they hoping that "Rose" and her mentions of Richie would be his downfall? 

MacLeod walked to the kitchen area, and stilled at what he saw. Richie's glove. The motorcycle glove he had taken from Richie's dead hand lay on his table. How had it gotten there? He knew he hadn't done it. Crane must have had someone plant it here. But when? During the night? No, he would have known if someone had broken into his barge. Maybe he had left it here after all. 

He tentatively reached for it. He swallowed past the lump in his throat as he lightly brushed his thumb against the worn leather. A noise sounded behind him, and he whirled around, calling, "Richie?" 

"No, Mac. Just me," a visibly concerned Joe Dawson stated as he walked toward his friend. "Is, uh, is that Richie's?" 

Duncan glanced down at the glove he still held, nodding. 

"Damn, Mac, don't do this to yourself," he pleaded. "Don't you see? This is what they want. Pike and Crane want you remembering. They don't want to just kill you, they want to destroy you." 

The Highlander sighed, choosing to change the subject, "I spoke with Marina LeMartin this morning. She said our young friend was resting peacefully." 

"I bet she is," Dawson snapped. 

"Marina told me her name is Shelby Donovan, and her passport says she is from San Francisco," he added. 

"Why am I not surprised? San Francisco is Crane and Ben Greenlee's stomping ground. They were using a mental facility there as a cover for the Watcher's operations." Joe paused for a moment, a thought occurring to him. "Did you say Donovan was her last name? That sounds familiar. I should know it from somewhere. Look, I am going to go and make a few calls. See if I can't figure out where I've heard that name before." 

"I'll walk you out," MacLeod volunteered. 

He followed Dawson out into the warm sunlight. The man slid behind the wheel of his car and was driving off when Duncan saw _her._ Shelby Donovan. She was walking toward him, a hesitant smile on her face. 

For a moment, he was lost in the sheer beauty of her. She wore blue jeans and a lavender sweater to protect her from the cool chill in the air. A thick French braid held her gold hair away from her face. Much like Rose, there was an air of gentleness and innocence to her. 

But she wasn't Rose Thornton, he reminded himself. She was an imposter working for Crane. Or Pike. Or both of them. 

Forcing a pleasant smile on his face, he walked to meet her. "Good morning, Shelby. What can I do for you?" 

She hesitated visibly, finally admitting, "Richie called me this morning." 

He took a deep breath, trying to suppress his mounting fury. He had told Marina LeMartin to not let her receive or make any phone calls. And Marina had assured him that morning that she had done as instructed. 

Oh, this one lied so easily. And she played her part well. Gregory Pike must be thrilled with his creation, he thought furiously. "What did he want?" 

"He insists that we are both in danger." She watched his face for some reaction, but he showed none. He didn't believe her, though. She had the strongest sense of that. And of his anger. "Why don't you believe me? Richie insisted that you and he were close friends and--" 

"We were," he hissed. "He was my best friend." 

"Was?" she repeated in confusion. "Did you have some type of falling out? An argument? Is that why he wouldn't contact you personally?" 

"Why don't we ask him ourselves?" he suddenly suggested. 

"You know where he is?" Shelby asked, looking genuinely astonished. 

"Oh, yes," he insisted. "He's right here in Paris. I'll take you to visit him. Come on." 

* * *

**Chapter 19**

"Let go of me," Shelby Donovan demanded, trying to jerk her arm free of the grasp of MacLeod as he pulled her from his car. 

"I thought you wanted to see Riche," Duncan reminded. Taking her chin in hand, he turned her cheek to his gaze. "How much did Pike pay for the plastic surgery?" 

"You're insane," she realized, starting to feel genuine fear of him for the first time. 

"Did he tell you about Rose? Did he instruct you on how to flutter your eyes like she did? On how she smiled and laughed?" he demanded. A few wisps of hair had fallen from her braid and he pushed them back to reveal--nothing. Even the best plastic surgeon couldn't help leaving a few small scars around the hairline. But she had none. 

His hold loosened some, and she jerked away from him. Finally glancing around at her surroundings, she whispered softly, "This is a cemetery. Why did you bring me here?" 

"I promised you a visit with Richie," he reminded. 

Her face paled visibly and she stepped away from him, turning towards the cemetery. She moved as if in a trace, her steps carrying her directly to the grave of Richie Ryan. 

She was so pale, he realized in concern, watching as she sank to her knees in front of the grave. 

"It can't be. This isn't real," she whispered softly. "It's a mistake. We're talking about a different Richie." 

"What game are you playing?" MacLeod accused, watching as her trembling hand reached out to trace the engraving on Ryan's headstone. 

Shelby gasped as a thousand images filled her mind at once. This was Richie, lying here dead. _Her_ Richie. She closed her eyes in pain, his face filling her mind. It was the same face as-- 

The dream! That horrifying, never-ending nightmare she had been having for the past three years. A long hall. An abandoned building--no, a racetrack. It was an old racetrack. Richie had been there. He had been the one in her dream. The one who had turned at the end of the hall and looked at her. He had looked at her moments before he walked around the corner and met his demise. 

"You!" she screamed, whirling around to face MacLeod. He was the other one in her nightmare. The one with the long black hair. She had never seen his face in her dreams, but she knew. "It was you!" 

MacLeod watched her in genuine concern. She was eerily pale and tears spilled down her cheeks. 

"Oh my God," Shelby sobbed as she pushed to her feet. "You did it. You killed him. He's dead and you killed him." 

"Where is Gregory Pike?" he countered. 

"I don't know," she whispered hoarsely. 

Duncan felt his assurance falter in the face of her tears. Either she was the best damn actress he had ever met, or she honestly didn't know. The look in her eyes was raw. Real. No one could fake that emotion. 

Softening his tone, he asked, "The man who sent you here. Who was he?" 

She folded her trembling hands together as if a silent prayer, pressing them to her lips as she sobbed. "It was Richie. I swear it was." 

"Shelby, listen to me," he gently began, reaching for her trembling hands. 

She gasped aloud, his mere touch bringing a thousand images to her mind. They played over and over liked a film in fast forward. This man with a sword. Killing people as he severed their heads from their bodies. She saw him raise a sword and take the head of the one called Kronos. She could never forget the face of Kronos. It was branded in her mind from the night he had killed Claude right before her. 

Kronos had killed Claude. MacLeod had killed Kronos. MacLeod had killed Richie. He was an Immortal. 

She screamed and pulled away from him. Richie was dead. . .and she was insane. She had always been insane. There was no such thing as Immortals. Christopher Ramsey was dead. And Claude--The Dark Man--was just a figment of her deranged mind. And the same with Richie. Had these last few years been little more than a hallucination? 

Was this even real? Was MacLeod real? 

She was so pale MacLeod feared she would faint at any moment. He reached out in concern, capturing her upper arms in a sturdy hold. She pushed against him with all her might. Her force startled him, and his foot caught on the end of Ryan's grave. He lost his footing and fell. Shelby claimed the escape, turning and running away. 

Grunting, MacLeod pushed back to his feet and raced after her. Racing out of the cemetery, he looked around, but she was no where in sight. He bit back a curse, unsure of which direction she had taken. And he was still unsure of her. 

Was Pike using her? Was Pike making her believe that he was Richie? He would find out soon enough. Pike would come for him now. Of that, he was certain. 

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Joe Dawson opened the door to his apartment, smiling in relief to find MacLeod standing there. 

"Thank God," he sighed. "I was starting to worry about you." 

"I got your message," he stated, stepping into the room. "What's up?" 

"Shelby Donovan," he stated simply. "My people came through in the States. She's an escaped mental patient." 

"What?!" MacLeod exploded, running a hand through his short black hair. He understood her reactions from earlier now. She was not well. 

"You heard me right," Dawson assured. "She was under the treatment of Dr. Greenlee in a clinic in San Francisco. She escaped a few days ago. The Watchers have been hunting for her every since." 

"Why are the Watchers looking for her?" he asked in confusion. 

He sighed, beginning, "I thought the name sounded familiar. But it's been so long ago. Thirteen years, at least. She witnessed an Immortal beheading when she was eight. I didn't know any details because I was here in Paris watching you at the time. One of our people in the States took charge of the situation. When I asked James about it once, he swore that it was being taken care of and I shouldn't worry. So I didn't. In fact, I never even thought of it again until now." 

"Horton," MacLeod spat the name as if it were poison. "He had her admitted to this facility in San Francisco, didn't he?" 

"Actually, I'm not sure who admitted her. It should be in the papers my people are suppose to be faxing me any minute now. Shelby was put under the care of Dr. Greenlee, whom we now know is working for Crane. I've already put in a few calls, though. Our people are headed over to the château as we speak." 

"Uh, Joe," the Highlander corrected, "she's not there anymore." 

"Then where is she?" he asked. 

"I don't know." 

* * *

**Chapter 21**

The cold wind ripped through the material of her sweater, but Shelby Donovan didn't feel the freezing air as it chilled her skin. A light rain had started to fall, but she didn't feel it, either. 

She hesitantly stepped up to the railing of the bridge, reaching for the cold metal. She wasn't sure how long she had been standing over the Seine River. All she knew was that she wanted it to end. The nightmares. The hallucinations. She wanted to stop seeing people who weren't real. She wanted to stop living with a delusion of men who lived forever. 

She swung one leg over the railing, unaware of the car that skidded to a halt behind her. She stared down into the swelling water. It would end soon. . . 

"Shelby!" a voice screamed. 

She whirled around then, watching as the man walked hesitantly toward her. "Come here, honey," he insisted, holding out his hand. 

A cold wind blew against him, swirling his long black coat. She stared at his face, insisting, "You're not real, either." 

"I'm real," he insisted, moving closer to her. He kept his hand extended. 

Something about the moment was eerily familiar. She had lived this once before. With this same man. 

"You trusted me once," he reminded. "Trust me again. Give me your hand." 

"I just want it to stop," her voice broke. 

"I know you do. And it will, Shelby. You just have to trust me. I will make it stop." 

She glanced back toward the river, and he took the opportunity to close the brief distance between them. He grabbed her arm and forcefully pulled her from the railing, catching her before she hit the cement. He gathered her in his arms in a crushing embrace, breathing a sigh of relief against her hair. 

She raised her eyes to his face. It was the same face as. . . 

"I remember you," she stated in recognition. "You were there the night Claude died." 

* * *

**Chapter 22**

Duncan MacLeod paced the floor of his friend's apartment, glancing at his watch for the third time. "I never should have taken her to Richie's grave. What was I thinking?" 

"You were thinking that she was an accomplice of Pike's and Crane's," Joe reminded. "The same thing I was thinking. You had no way of knowing that she was unstable or that they could be using her. Or that she would react so violently." 

"I thought your people were suppose to be faxing you the information on her," he snapped. 

"They are," he patiently insisted. "But I don't know if it will help us much. It is just her medical and admission records. I know that they found other records about her at Greenlee's house, but they won't send me those. I tried, trust me, but our Superiors in the States are handling this matter personally. I did get some information out of one of my friends, though. From the way Greenlee's notes sound. . .it sounds like she has been programmed to destroy you." 

MacLeod turned in surprise. "Brainwashed?" 

"It's possible," he acknowledged. "Mac, she has had no plastic surgery. I checked that. If she reminds you of someone from the past, then it is a coincidence." 

"No, it's not," he disagreed. "Crane knew she looked like Rose Thornton. That's why he chose her. I'm going to look for her--" 

The sound of a fax machine humming cut him off. Dawson snatched the papers as they appeared, his eyes hastily scanning them. "According to this, Shelby was admitted a few months after she witnessed the beheading. Crane and Greenlee were put in charge of her care. Visited often by Horton," he spat. "Her parents are dead. Her legal guardian was listed as. . ." 

"Who?" he insisted when Joe's voice trailed off. He accepted the paper his friend held out to him, eyeing the signature he knew so well. 

"Adam Pierson," Dawson sighed. 

"Methos," MacLeod added, both disbelief and anger burning in his dark eyes. 

* * *

**Chapter 23**

"Methos!" MacLeod demanded, slamming his balled fist against the door of his friend's apartment. "Methos!" 

"Maybe he hasn't made it back to Paris yet," Joe spoke from behind him, leaning heavily on his cane. 

"Oh, he's here. I can feel him," MacLeod assured, sensing the presence of the other Immortal. He raised his fist and was about to pound on the door again when it swung open. 

"Would you like to yell 'Methos' just a little bit louder, MacLeod?" the five-thousand-year-old man irritably snapped. "I don't think the Watchers heard you in Russia." 

"We need to talk," Duncan announced, trying to step into the apartment. 

Methos blocked his path, firmly standing in his way. "I'm busy right now." 

"Well, make time," the Scotsman decreed, forcing his way inside. A black medical bag set on the coffee table, a small vial of medicine beside it. He checked the nearby wastebasket, not surprised to see a used syringe in it. Turning back to Methos, he taunted, "Playing doctor?" 

"I am a doctor," he reminded, watching as Joe took a step towards his closed bedroom door. "Do you two mind?" 

"Do you?" Dawson asked, turning the handle and pushing the door open. 

Methos released a sigh of frustration as both men saw Shelby Donovan at the same time. She lay asleep on his bed, curled into a tight ball. 

MacLeod reached her first, hesitantly sitting down on the soft mattress beside her. She had taken her hair down from the braid and it was spilled across the pillow. "Shelby?" he called, touching the back of her neck. He was surprised to find her hair slightly damp. She was wearing one of Methos' shirts, her own clothes folded and laid in the chair beside the bed. When she didn't respond, he turned to the other Immortal and demanded, "What did you do to her? Why is she in your bed and--" 

"I'm not a pervert, MacLeod," he snapped. "I didn't do anything to her. Oh, except save her life." 

"What do you mean?" Dawson asked. 

"I found her on a bridge, in the freezing rain. She was about to jump." 

"Oh, God," MacLeod groaned, pushing a hand through his dark hair. 

"I brought her here, made her change into some dry clothes, and gave her a mild sedative. She should sleep for a few more hours," Methos explained, reaching for a blanket and covering her up. "When she wakes up, I will do what I should have done thirteen years ago. I'm going to tell her the truth." 

* * *

**Chapter 24**

"These are copies of Greenlee's private files on Shelby," Dawson stated in disbelief, shuffling through the papers spread out on Methos' kitchen table. "How did you get these? I couldn't even get these!" 

"Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies," he smoothly replied, rummaging the refrigerator for a third beer. Finding it, he returned to the table, handing the other men their cold beverage. He twisted the top off his, taking a long sip before sitting down across from Joe. 

"Why don't you just tell us how you met Shelby," MacLeod calmly suggested. 

Methos reached for one of the folders, opening it to reveal a picture of a man with dark hair. Removing the paper clip that held the snap shot in place, he handed it to the Scotsman. 

"His name was Claude. Some called him Claude the Gladiator." 

"I've heard of him," MacLeod responded, studying the picture. "Darius told me once that he was a fierce warrior." 

"Darius would know, I suppose," Methos replied. "They were friends. But I was his teacher. Indeed, he was a force on the battlefield. But times changed. He changed. He took the name Christopher Ramsey and married a woman with two children. He settled down and tried to leave The Game. He started teaching elementary school history, and he worked as the school's counselor. There was young girl at his school named Shelby Donovan. A quiet, serious child, he told me. Her parents said she was shy. Her teachers said she was withdrawn, and they wanted her counseled. But before Claude could meet with her, his family was killed in a car accident and he took some time off. Shortly after he returned to work, he was called to his office where one of the teachers had a little blonde girl waiting for him. She was crying. Hysterical, he later told me. He said that she told him her parents had just been killed in a plane crash. He kept her in his office and tried to calm her down. An hour or so later, the principal and several police officers knocked on his door. They were there to tell her that her parents had been killed when their plane had crashed earlier that morning. They had been on a second honeymoon and were coming home to her. Later, when Claude asked her how she had known her parents were gone, she told him that she had just 'felt' it." 

"That's odd," Dawson commented. 

"Not necessarily. Sometimes people just know," MacLeod disagreed. "When Tessa died, I felt it. I heard the gunshot and I just knew." 

Methos nodded in understanding. "After she came back to school, Claude began counseling her full time. That was when he called me. He thought that there was something unusual about her. Claude had become fascinated with the afterlife when his wife and stepchildren died. He thought she had some type of ESP and was talking to his dead family." 

"It sounds like he should have been committed," Joe stated. "He wasn't filling her head with this, was he?" 

"No. I made him promise that he would say nothing of it to her until I could get there. I was thinking that he was the one on the verge of a breakdown. The only way he would agree to meet with me was if Shelby was there. He was determined to make me see this power he thought she had. He received permission from Shelby's foster family to take her to a carnival on her eighth birthday. What she didn't know, was that I was supposed to meet them there. Only my plane was delayed. Claude didn't know that, so when he felt the presence of another Immortal, he assumed it was me. He took Shelby and walked to the beach with her. And that was when Kronos found them." 

"Kronos," MacLeod shook his head, recalling to mind the face of Methos' old, but evil friend. 

"Yes. I can only assume that Kronos was looking for me. He must have got wind of my plane reservations or something and was hoping to surprise me. You know, he was wanting to get the band back together," he stated meaningfully, making reference to the Four Horsemen. "I wasn't there, but killing my student and friend probably gave him a perverse thrill. 

"Shelby was hiding under a pier," Methos continued. "She witnessed the entire thing. By the time my plane landed and I got to the beach, it was over. Claude was dead. The cops were crawling all over the place. . .and there was this little girl. Scared. Trembling. Hiding. I talked her into taking my hand and trusting me." 

"And then you turned her over to Greenlee and Crane?" Dawson asked. 

"No. I was torn, Joe. I didn't know what the hell to do," he admitted, a hint of guilt in his voice. "She was eight years old. How could I tell her about Immortals and Watchers? She was just a child. Both of you know what our world is like. I just kept thinking that it wasn't fair to bring an innocent little girl into our reality. So. . .I tried an alternative. I convinced the Watchers to let me handle the situation. I took charge of her psychiatric care for a few weeks. I tried to convince her that she had imagined the 'lightening' she had seen. I was hoping she would come to believe it herself. Only she started talking about Immortals and Quickenings." 

"So Claude had told her what he was, after all," Duncan put in, feeling anger towards the unknown Immortal. There had been no call to involve her in their world at such a young age. 

Methos rubbed his weary eyes and continued. "She claimed that Claude had visited her from beyond the grave. Her foster parents said she would sit in her room for hours and talk to thin air. She would tell them stories about Claude. Things that he had done and seen and she swore that he had told them to her after his death. Then she would have nightmares where she would scream that dead men kept talking to her. I didn't know what to do. I contacted Ben Greenlee because I trusted him. I didn't have a clue what he and Horton were. I certainly didn't know what they were planning." 

"How could you?" Joe assured. "None of us did. What did Greenlee do?" 

"After a few sessions with her, he told me that she was mentally ill, and she probably had been since birth. He babbled on about a chemical imbalance in her brain and personality disorders, made worse by the added trauma of Claude and the beheading. He convinced me that she should be admitted. That he would make her better. I felt partly responsible for the whole incident. After all, Kronos had been tracking me at the time. I agreed to his suggestions and admitted her to Langston. I left her there for Greenlee and Crane and Horton to toy with her mind." 

"You didn't know what they were planning," Duncan tried to reassure him. "But the important thing now is to figure out exactly what they did to her. Maybe we can reverse it." 

"This brainwashing theory of Joe's makes excellent sense to me," Methos stated. "We all read through the papers earlier. There are several mentions of Horton hypnotizing her." 

"I don't know," Duncan disagreed, shaking his dark head. "There is no mention of them actually brainwashing her. And why wouldn't Greenlee or Horton mention it if it was their plan?" 

"Because it wasn't James' plan," Joe sighed, his eyes trained to the notes that had been written by the hand of his former brother-in-law. "Listen to this: 'Sean has discovered an uncanny fact. Shelby Donovan bares a stunning resemblance to a woman that MacLeod once encountered. A woman that, according to our archives, MacLeod murdered during the Civil War. Her name was Rose Thornton and she was engaged to the Immortal Gregory Pike. Sean thinks we should use this information. But I disagree. MacLeod is living with Tessa Noel now and my brother-in-law, Joe, insists that he is devoted to the mortal woman and would never betray her. Least of all with Shelby Donovan. She is still just a teen now. And I find that I would prefer to keep things as they are now. She has been an invaluable asset to me.'" 

"Invaluable asset?" MacLeod repeated. "I wonder what he meant by that." 

"I don't know," Dawson shook his head, flipping through the notes. He searched quietly for several minutes before finding another of Horton's handwritten notes. "This one is dated shortly after she was committed. He writes, 'It would seem that the theory of Claude the Gladiator was correct. I, too, am starting to believe in Shelby Donovan's abilities that go beyond this world. Today, under hypnosis, I showed her a picture of MacLeod and she recalled moments from his past, namely an encounter with a Confederate officer. Sean Crane is researching the archives now to confirm this encounter. She also told me a surreal fact. She believes that I am the man MacLeod cannot kill.' Huh," Joe snorted. "So much for that theory. You did kill him. So I guess Claude was wrong. She has no psychic powers." 

"'I'm the man you can't kill.' Horton use to say that to me," Duncan interrupted, a memory suddenly flooding his mind. Someone else had said those words. A Confederate Colonel named Colt Jackson had said them to Rose. "Let me see that." 

Joe obliged, handing him the notes and listening as he read from Horton's files, "'The incident Shelby recalled happened on the back porch of a plantation home. MacLeod was feeding the Confederate soldiers. Sean and the others have searched the archives and have yet to find confirmation of this, but we did lose track of MacLeod several times during those years. If this is true, it makes me pause and wonder. MacLeod was suppose to be an abolitionist, so why was he helping the Confederacy?'" 

"Did you ever do anything like that, Mac?" Joe inquired. 

"No," he shook his head. " _I_ didn't. But Rose Thornton did. She fed those men on the back porch of her home. And Colt Jackson said to her 'I'm the man you can't kill'." 

"Colt Jackson?" Dawson laughed. "Are you telling me that guy was real? My history teacher always said he was a legend the South had invented." 

"Oh, Joseph, my impressionable young friend, you don't actually believe those books do you?" Methos sighed. "History was written by the men who hung the real heroes." 

"Jackson was no hero," MacLeod disagreed. "I recall him luring one of Sherman's flanks into a valley and then setting the battlefield on fire. Nearly every one of them burned to death." 

"Hmmm, yes and those would have been the same men who had burned Atlanta and were trying to kill him, right?" 

"Do you have any idea how many men he killed?" the Highlander insisted. 

"I don't know. More than you, less than me," Methos shrugged. "I actually liked him. I met him once. He was a nice kid, although I think he had issues with his mother. And he was a little rough around the edges, but not too bad. I remember because I had heard the rumors of this man who was hard to kill and I kept thinking he was one of us. He got shot once. He was bounty hunting at the time, I think, and he came to the town where I was practicing medicine and--" 

"Can we get back to the subject, please," MacLeod interrupted. "Colt Jackson said those words to Rose Thornton. Those exact words. 'I'm the man you can't kill.' Horton misunderstood. He thought Shelby was saying he was the man I couldn't kill. But she was just repeating what someone had once said to Rose." 

"But how could she have known what was said to a woman who lived well over a hundred years ago?" Dawson inquired 

"I don't know," Duncan shook his head. "But she knows. How could she have known that?" 

"Maybe because Greenlee was planting these things in her mind. Or maybe something else," Methos insisted, tossing a paper to him. "That is a list of every book Shelby has ever checked out of the hospital library. You will notice the one close to the top, 'Legends, Myths, And Facts Of The Civil War'. Chapter Thirteen is called 'The Man They Couldn't Kill' and it recounts the Southern legend of Colt Jackson. His entire life from ranching to the Civil War to bounty hunting to the Texas Ranger. It even talks of how he once told a doctor about a beautiful Southern woman who fed his hungry troops just before the battle for Atlanta." 

"Oh, I guess you've read it," MacLeod snapped. 

"No. I helped write it," the other man countered. "I'm the man he told that tale to. He recounted it--and half his life story--after half a bottle of whiskey the night I dug two bullets out of him. It was the only painkiller I had at the time. A fact like that could have stuck in her head and she recounted it under hypnosis. That has happened before. People recall false memories all the time." 

"But Rose--" 

"Did she keep a journal?" Dawson suddenly asked. 

"I don't know," the Highlander admitted. 

"Is it possible that she might have?" the Watcher insisted. "Mac, you've already admitted that Shelby reminds you of this Rose Thornton. Pike and Crane would know that. And Pike was engaged to her. He could have gotten his hands on a journal of hers. Or someone close to her could have told him anything he wanted to know." 

"And Greenlee could have filled her mind with those facts," Methos added. 

MacLeod sighed, weary. "You're right. They're using her." 

"I'm glad you are finally seeing logic," Methos stated, standing from the table. "Excuse me, gentlemen. Nature calls." 

MacLeod reached for another stack of papers, rubbing his tired eyes. He could feel Dawson's eyes on him. "What?" he asked. 

"Monroe was separated from you during your encounter with Rose Thornton," Joe hesitantly began. "Pike's Watcher suggested that-that you were the one who. . ." 

"Who what?" he pressed when Joe's voice trailed off. 

"He accused you of killing Rose Thornton," the man stated bluntly. 

Sadness filled MacLeod's dark eyes, and he admitted, "In some ways, I did. . ." 

* * *

**Chapter 25**

The Three Springs Plantation, 1863 

"You've been to Paris," Rose Thornton squealed, plopping down beside him on the couch and tucking her bare feet under her. 

Duncan smiled at her youthful enthusiasm. He now fully understood what it was Gregory Pike saw in this woman. For he had also succumbed to her endless charms in the last few weeks. In the beginning, it was curiosity. Then enchantment. Now he knew for certain--it was love. 

Somehow, in the middle of the hellish nightmare on Earth that was called war, he had found himself opening up his heart again for the magic of love. The weeks here with her at the plantation had been like Heaven to him. They had worked side by side during the day, laughed together over dinner, and spent the evenings simply getting to know one another. 

But reality was waiting at the door with every sunset. Soon his friend from Texas would be bringing up the next group of escaped slaves, and he would have to leave her to see them to safety. He would have to leave her to the return of Gregory Pike. 

The thought chilled his blood. No, he would not leave her. He would see her safely out of the country. Or Pike dead. Whichever opportunity present itself first. 

Taking a rose from the arrangement on the coffee table, he light twirled it with his fingers as he decreed, "Paris is so beautiful this time of year. You would love it." 

Her hair was unbound, falling free around her face and she pushed back an unruly red curl as she sighed sadly, "I doubt I will ever see it. This war just goes on and on." 

"Everything ends eventually," he assured, lightly caressing her cheek with the rose. "You will see Paris. I will take you there myself." 

"Maybe in my next life," she teased. 

"My love is like a red, red rose," the verse of the poem popped into his mind unexpectedly and he whispered it to her. 

"Duncan," she blushed, looking away. 

He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look him in the eyes. He knew his face was unguarded, the love he felt for her shining in his eyes as he proclaimed, "It is, Rose. You are my Rose. My red, red Rose. I love you, sweetheart." 

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she turned away from him, pleading, "Please, don't say that." 

"Why? It's how I feel." 

"Because you're leaving," she whispered past the lump in her throat. "In a few more days, you will be leaving me. And then Greg--" 

"I won't leave here without you," he insisted in a forceful voice. "I love you. And I will either stay, or take you with me. To hell with Pike." 

"I can't leave here. Not now. This place is my home and it must be protected, especially if Sherman overtakes Atlanta. He could march strait though us. I may not believe in slavery, but I am still a Southerner. And there is some honor left in that. Besides, Three Springs is Paul's legacy. It belongs to him and he will have it." 

"I understand honor, Rose," he assured, lightly tracing his finger down her cheek. "I want you to marry me. I want you to be my wife." 

"Duncan," she breathed in disbelief. "I. . .I don't know what to say. . .I'm already engaged!" 

"Do you love him?" he asked, needing to know how she honestly felt towards the other Immortal. 

"How could I? I'm in love with you," she sighed in defeat. "I never imagined I could care for anything as much as I do you. I think I have loved you my entire life. Even before I knew you. Yes, I'll marry you, Duncan MacLeod. A thousand times, yes!" 

He cupped her face then, lowering his mouth to hers for a gentle kiss. She sighed against his lips, her hands resting first on his shoulders and then sliding into his dark hair as he deepen the movements of his lips against hers. 

"Duncan," she whispered his name. "You realize how improper this is, don't you? It's utterly scandalous." 

"I know," he laughed, pressing his lips against her forehead. "I should be asking permission from your family just to speak with you. But the war has changed everything, Rose. The rules of your society do not apply anymore. All that matters is that we survive this war. Preferably together. We can make a good life here. Darling, there are some things about me that you need to know." 

"I have a lifetime to learn all your secrets," she laughed, but it sounded sad even to her own ears. "Oh, Mac. All this talk of the future. Are we testing the Fates already? Who is to say when this war ends. If it ever ends." 

"It will end," he insisted, brushing the curls from her forehead and tucking them behind her ear. 

"I don't know," she admitted. "Sometimes I think I will never live to see the day it is over." 

"You will," he tried to assure her. "We both will." 

Rose smiled into his beautiful dark eyes. She wanted to believe his words were true. She needed to believe them. But a cold darkness had settled into her soul, and she feared what it meant. 

* * *

**Chapter 26**

Stretching out on the checkered picnic blanket, Duncan quietly studied the sleeping face of Rose Thornton. He had convinced her to spend the day picnicking with him near the river. They had enjoyed a wonderful meal that Alice had provided for them. She had told him stories of her childhood, amusing him with her rebellious tales. And he had been surprised to find himself opening up to her, as well. He had talked of Scotland and his parents. Of his friend and clansman Connor MacLeod. He had told her of his friend Hugh Fitzcairn. He had spoken of his adventures in Paris and London and Rome. Her eyes had lit up like diamonds at his tales. He had yet to speak of his Immortality. He would tell her, though. Soon. 

His hand strayed to the book she had brought along on their picnic. She had seemed shy about presenting it to him. He lightly caressed the cover of Robert Burns' book of poems, opening it to read the inscription she had wrote to him on the inside. 

"My love is like a red, red rose," she had written in her delicate handwriting. "Until the end of time, I will be yours. In this life or the next, I will love you still. Rose." 

He had read to her from the book, and she had fallen asleep by his side. He knew she needed the rest. She worked too hard. 

He lightly brushed the backs of his fingertip across her cheek, and she stirred. 

"I'm sorry," he apologized when her eyes fluttered open. "I didn't mean to wake you." 

"It wasn't you," Rose assured, smiling sleepily. "I was having the strangest dream. You and I were together in Paris. . .only, I don't think it was me. I've never been to Paris, but I knew that is where we were. We were standing in front of his huge tower. Is there a tower in Paris?" 

"Not that I know of. Unless they have built it since I was there last," he teased, pleased when she moved into his arms. He held her close, and she rested her cheek against his chest. 

"Then I guess it was just a silly dream. It had to be. I had blonde hair," she laughed, and he joined her. 

"Blonde?" he curiously asked, fingering her red curls. "I can't imagine you as a blonde. What were we doing in Paris?" 

She grew quiet then, a cold shudder racing through her soul as she answered, "We were saying good-bye, I think." 

"Then that proves it was just a silly dream," he decreed, holding her tighter. "Because I wouldn't let you go that easily." 

"What if you had no choice?" 

"Hey," he rose up enough in the bed to stare down into her lovely face. "I love you. I have no intentions of leaving you. When this war ends, darling, I will take you to Paris. For our honeymoon." 

"Are you trying to spoil me?" she teased. 

"Of course," he assured, placing a soft kiss on her lips. He pulled away reluctantly, admitting, "We should get back to the main house before your brother comes to defend your honor." 

"We've done nothing wrong," she insisted. 

"Not yet," he added with a seductive grin. "I would hate for Paul and I to have pistols at dawn." 

"Or sabers at noon," she jokingly added. 

"Yeah. Sabers," he sighed, his tone serious as he glanced towards their horses. He had brought his sword with him. It was part of being an Immortal. He never let it get too far from reach. Rose had questioned that decision. 

Yes, he had to tell her about his Immortality. He would not be like Gregory Pike. He would tell her everything beforehand. She needed to know about him and Pike. She deserved to know who and what he was. The life she would be subjected to if she did marry him. He would give her that choice. 

"Why so serious?" she questioned, sitting up and cupping his face. "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing," he shrugged off the dark cloud, standing and pulling her up with him. 

"I promised Alice I would bring her a few buckets of fresh water from the river," she reminded, brushing the grass from her skirt. "I will be right back." 

"You want me to get it?" he volunteered. 

"No, you tend to the horses. I'll only be a second," she promised. 

"I hate to be separated from you even for a short time," he insisted. 

Rose laughed at his playful pout, kissing him as she decreed, "'And fare thee well, my only Love. And fare thee well awhile. And I will come again, my love.'" 

"'Tho' it were ten thousand mile,'" he finished the poem for her, kissing her hand as she slipped away from him. 

She retrieved the two small buckets from her horse and began walking toward the river. 

Rose smiled as the warm sun flowed down on her cheeks. She stepped onto the narrow, man-made wooden dock that extended over the river. She tied the handle of the bucket to the end of the rope and was about to toss the bucket down when she heard the boot heels click on the plank behind her. 

"Couldn't stay away from me--" she turned with a teasing smile, which quickly faded. "Gregory." 

"Hello, my dear," Pike greeted, stalking her like an animal trapping its prey. "You don't looked pleased to see me." 

Rose took a step away from the anger in his eyes, only to realize that she was at the end of the dock. She was trapped. Forcing a smile on her face, she insisted, "Of course I am thrilled to see you, Gregory. You just startled me. I wasn't expecting you back so soon. And. . .it isn't proper for us to be unchaperoned." 

"Ah, yes," he replied, removing his hat as he walked the short distance to her. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her finger where his ring had once been. "Where is my ring, darling?" 

"I-I was afraid I might lose it gathering water from the river," she lied. 

"You shouldn't be hauling water like a common slave." 

"We all do our part," she reminded, stepping past him and placing him on the end of the docks. 

"You pamper your slaves too much," he scolded. "You must learn how to become a better master to them. And a better liar if you intend to fool me." 

"Whatever are you talking about?" she played innocent, but gasped in pain as he roughly grabbed her arm and jerked her to his side. 

"Do not toy with me, Rosie," he threatened, tightening his grip of her arm. "You're a mess. You have grass in your hair. And your lips are swollen. Like you've been kissing someone. Are you betraying me, Rosie?" 

"Let me go," she demanded, trying to pull free of his hold. 

He refused to release her, his voice lowering in anger. "Someone has been betraying me. Someone has been feeding information to those damned abolitionists. Now I want to know who it is?" 

"You're hurting me," she whispered in pain. 

"Forgive me, my dear," he smiled pleasantly, lightening his grasp. "But I told only you about my plans for Clarksville. And yet somehow they still went awry. Who did you tell, Rosie? Paul? Thomas? Your lover?" 

She gasped in fear when he produced a knife, pressing it close to her cheek. "Will he come running when you scream?" Pike inquired, malice in his eyes. 

"You bastard," she whispered, spitting in his face. "I hate you! I've hated you for so long--" 

He slapped her hard across the face, knocking her to the dock. He wiped the saliva from his cheek with marked precision. "Who is he, Rosie? Your lover, The Shadow?" 

" _I_ am The Shadow," she stressed with great relish, enjoying the shock that registered in his face before he could hide it. 

Pike grabbed her arm roughly and forced her back to her feet. She looked into his eyes then and stilled with terror. There was evil there. Nothing but sure, malicious evil. 

He stiffened then, his hold loosening on her as he glanced around, as if sensing someone was nearby. 

Duncan stepped into her view then, and she groaned inwardly. No, she silently pleaded. Please, God, don't let Pike hurt Duncan. 

"You," the Confederate officer whispered in fury. 

MacLeod produced his sword, demanding, "Let her go." 

Pike glanced at his squirming captive before pushing her away with a hard shove. She fell to the dock, and he stepped over her, retrieving his own sword as he eyed MacLeod. 

Duncan took several steps in Pike's direction. He circled the other Immortal until he had carefully place himself between Rose and Pike. "Go back to the main house, Rose." 

"No. Stay," Pike ordered. "Watch me take your lover's head. And then I'll take you." 

Pike suddenly jerked his pistol free of its holster, firing once and catching MacLeod in the chest. He gasped in surprise and pain, clutching the wound as he fell to one knee. From behind him, he heard Rose scream his name. 

"I told you I didn't believe in fair fights," Pike reminded, raising his sword to strike the fatal blow. 

"Nooo!" Rose screamed, pushing to her feet and throwing herself at MacLeod as the sword swung. 

Duncan felt himself being thrown to the docks. He heard Rose cry out in pain, and fall atop him. He struggled to breathe as the pain in his chest began to subside, and a new sound exploded through the air. 

In horror, Pike stared at the bloody, deep gash in Rose's side before slowly dropping his eyes to his chest, a huge, gaping hole there. He raised his gaze to the beginning of the docks. Thomas stood there, a double barrel shotgun in hand. The old man cocked the weapon, aiming it at Pike and squeezing the trigger again. 

The second blast knocked him back several feet. His booted heels balanced for a moment at the end of the plank, but then the weight of his body carried him into the water. The cold water greeted him, engulfing him in its greedy arms and pulling him under. 

"Rose," Duncan groaned, gently rolling her off him. He cradled her limp body as he laid her against the wood planks. 

She was eerily pale, her trembling hand resting against his chest as she whispered, "He. . . shot. . ." 

"Shhh. . ." he pleaded, trying to put pressure on the gaping wound to stop the bleeding. "Don't talk, sweetheart. Thomas--Thomas!" 

The old man hobbled to his side, his eyes wide with the horror of what he had just done. "Miss Rose?" his voice broke as he knelt beside them. 

"Get a doctor!" Duncan screamed at him. 

"Thomas. . ." she whispered. "Tell Paul I love him." 

MacLeod grabbed the front of the man's shirt, forcing his attention back to him. "Get a doctor, now!" 

He nodded, pushing to his feet and running as fast as his old legs could carry him. 

"It's going to be okay," he whispered over and over, even thought he knew it was a lie. He had seen enough wounds like these to know better. "Thomas is going to get a doctor." 

"I'm so cold. Hold me. Please." 

Tears slipped from his eyes at her tender request. Gently gathering her into his arms, he pulled her close. 

"Hold me tighter," she pleaded, and he strengthened his embrace. Willing her to live. 

"Duncan," she sighed weakly, resting her cheek against the steady beat of his heart. "Remember what we . . .talked . . .about. Reincarnation?" 

He pressed his lips to her soft hair, whispering, "Are you planning on living a couple more lives?" 

She rasped, "As many. . .as it takes. . .to find you again." 

"I love you," he stated in anguish. 

"Will you. . .look for me?" she requested. "Look for me. . .I-I'll find you again." 

"I'll look," he promised. 

"I love you, too," she sighed, drawing a ragged breath. 

"'My love is like a red, red rose'," he quoted, feeling the life drain from her body. He gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly as if to will the life back into her. 

When she didn't respond, he buried his face in her neck, and wept. 

* * *

**Chapter 27**

"I'm sorry, Mac," Dawson sighed as he listened to the end of the tale. "You didn't kill her, though. You've got to know that." 

"But she died saving me," he insisted, blinking back the moisture from his eyes. "Pike would have killed me with that blow. She got between us. He killed her instead." 

"You never saw Pike again?" 

"I went looking for him, but by then he had escaped the river," he admitted. "We buried Rose a few days later. Naturally, it had to be reported to the authorities. Paul invented a story to protect Thomas and myself. He told the authorities that Rose and Pike had been attacked by The Shadow. The man had killed them both. Pike was 'dead' to the Confederacy then, so he moved on." 

"And his Watcher, having heard the story of Rose's death and knowing about your encounter with him, assumed that you were The Shadow and that you had killed her," Joe concluded. 

"I suppose," MacLeod said. "After the funeral, I took the book by Robert Burns that Rose had given me and I left. I met with my friend who was bringing the runaways up from Texas and I rejoined Harold. Freeing slaves was Rose's work as well, and I wanted to finish it." 

"Only you were captured and sent to Andersonville shortly thereafter," Joe finished the tale. "Your Watcher had no idea about Rose, did he?" 

"No, I guess not," he answered. "After the war, I went back. Thomas had died a few months after Rose, and they buried him beside her in the family plot. Big Al stayed and looked after the place. Paul lost most of his land during Reconstruction, but he managed to keep the house. He gave Al a section of land. Paul later went on to become a doctor. He married and had a beautiful family. About seventy years after his death, fire took the main house. Then tornadoes disrupted the family graveyard. Rose's headstone was lost. But I still remember exactly were her grave was. I remember everything." 

"I'm sorry, MacLeod," he sincerely stated. This man--his friend--had lost so much. He had been hurt so often. Sometimes Dawson didn't know how he kept it together. 

"No," he refuted, shaking his head. "Don't be sorry. I'm not. I would never regret the time I had with Rose. After Consone killed Theresa del Gloria, I was devastated. I moved on with my life. I had friends and people I cared about, but I shut a part of myself off from them. I didn't let anyone too close. I thought it wasn't worth it anymore. The pain of losing far outshone the joy of love. And then I met Rose. She opened up my heart again. She touched that part of me that I thought was closed off. Because of her, I learned to love again. If not for her, I might have drifted into bitterness and isolation. I might have shut myself off forever, never letting anyone close again." 

"I don't believe that," his friend disagreed. 

"It's possible," he assured. "Rose changed me. Don't you see, Joe? An Immortal's personality isn't always about who _he_ chooses to be. It's about who he meets along the way. Who he cherishes and who cherishes him in return. The people who love us make us who we are. And Rose Thornton made me better." 

"Now those bastards Crane and Pike are toying with your memories of her," he hissed in fury. 

"They can't touch my memories of her. It is Shelby who they are toying with. And it has to stop. I'm going to check on her," he announced, standing and walking from the room. 

He stopped outside of her door, knocking lightly. When he received no response, he pushed the door open. She sat in the dark, her chair pulled close to the window. She had a blanket pulled close around her as she stared out the glass and into the night. 

He watched her from a distance. She was so beautiful, he thought. She looked so much like his Rose. The resemblance literally made him ache inside. His Rose had spoke of finding him again, in another life. Was it possible? Did he even dare to believe in it? 

"Oh, Rose," he sighed. 

"My name is Shelby," she replied. 

Startled, he snapped back to the present. He walked to her side, admitting, "I know. I was just thinking out loud." 

She looked at him then, and there was such a lost look on her face that he hurt for her. He knew that feeling. He had felt it after Richie's death. 

"He was just here," she spoke in a hollow voice. 

"Who?" 

"Richie. I pretended like I didn't see him. But he was here." 

Duncan glanced around the room, noticing for the first time how cold it was. He walked to the window and looked out. It was a long, steep drop from the second story window. No way anyone could have climbed up and down without endangering himself. 

"He didn't use the window. He came through the door." 

"Shelby," Duncan sighed, kneeling before her and looking into her detached eyes. "There is no one else in this apartment but you, Joe, Adam, and me." 

"No. You don't understand," she whispered hoarsely. "He came _through_ the door. Like it wasn't even there. He just. . .walked though it." 

He rested a hand against her cheek, vowing, "I don't know what they did to you, Shelby, but I will help you. We all will." 

"He's worried about you, Tough Guy." 

He stilled then, the old nickname sending a cold chill down his spine. "What did you say?" 

"That's what he said to tell you. He's worried about you, Tough Guy. He is afraid you will stop feeling. Stop hurting. And then he will worry about you. Just like you said to him after Alec Hill died." 

"Get some rest," he ordered, standing abruptly and leaving the room. But he couldn't forget the eerie conversation. 

* * *

**Chapter 28**

"She called me 'Tough Guy'," MacLeod explained to Joe. "That is what Richie use to call me." 

"So what?" Methos shrugged. "It just proves what we already expected. Crane was playing with her mind. Implanting memories. We all knew that Richie called you that, including the Watchers. It has been recorded in journals and archives. All Crane had to do was take note of it and put that thought in her head." 

"And do the Watchers have every conversation we ever had recorded in detail?" he snapped. "Did they have a bug under the couch in Richie's apartment? Did they record word for word the conversation we had about Alec Hill?" 

"No," Joe admitted. "The truth is, no one outside of you and Richie knows what was said that night." 

"And add Shelby to that list because she knows. She knows it word for word." 

"Then maybe Richie told someone before he died," Methos suggested. "MacLeod, this girl is not a psychic. She can't see into your mind and she isn't talking to Richie Ryan from beyond the grave. Richie is dead. And you will be, too, if you don't stop buying into Crane's bull." 

"I know," he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I know." 

"You look beat, Mac. Go home and get some rest," Dawson insisted. "Methos and I can handle things here." 

"Are you sure?" he hesitantly asked, grateful for the suggestion. 

"Yes," Methos assured. "We will call you if anything come up." 

* * *

**Chapter 29**

"You should be asleep," Methos ordered, standing in the doorway and eyeing his young charge. She still sat in the chair, staring into the night. Yet he had the uncanny feeling that she wasn't actually seeing anything. She was lost somewhere in her own mind. 

With a sad sigh, he walked to her and rested a hand against her forehead to check for fever. 

Shelby jumped at his touch, stating, "You were close to Claude, weren't you?" 

"Crane could have told you that," he stated softly, refusing to give into MacLeod's flare for the dramatic. 

"She doesn't blame you," she announced, turning suddenly clear eyes to him. 

"Who doesn't blame me?" 

"The woman with the black hair. Helen. . .no, Helena. She doesn't blame you. It was an accident. You couldn't have known the ship would sink--" 

He pulled away from her sharply, a chill gripping his spine. That had been a thousand years ago. . .no one knew. Not even the Watchers. He had checked the archives on himself. His time with Helena had never been recorded in history. Or her death. 

"Do you want something to eat?" he questioned, switching to a new topic. 

She smiled at him then, a shy, innocent smile. "You can change the subject all you want, Methos, but I still know." 

"Who told you my name was Methos? MacLeod? Dawson?" 

"Helena did," she assured. "She always liked Methos better than your alias." 

Her words chilled him to the bone. She couldn't know those things. She simply couldn't. "I-I am going to fix you some soup," he insisted. "You need to eat." 

Shelby watched him leave in a hurry, pulling the door closed behind him. The last effects of the sedative were finally wearing off and things were starting to become clearer now. She remembered something Richie had said earlier that evening. He had told her about the place. He had told her not to go there. But she didn't care anymore. She needed to know what was there. She had to know. 

She tossed the blanket aside and moved across the room. She quickly shed the shirt she had been wearing and pulled on her sweater, jeans and shoes. She opened the door and quietly slipped out. Dawson and Methos were arguing in the kitchen about soup, their attention averted away from her. 

She crept past them as quietly as possible, opening the front door and slipping out. She rushed down the stairs and into the welcoming night air. She took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. 

She had to understand. She had to know what was at that place. The old racetrack. Richie had told her not to go there. He had spoken of evil and death. He had insisted that she leave it alone. But she couldn't. Something stronger than her was pulling her there. 

She stepped onto the street then, instinctively turning in the direction of the old building. 

From the alley across the street, a crude smile slide across the face of Sean Crane. Quickly dialing a number on his cell phone, he ordered, "Be ready, Pike. I'm about to deliver everything I promised you." 

He snapped the phone shut then. He stepped onto the street, turning and following Shelby Donovan. 

* * *

**Chapter 30**

Shelby Donovan moved down the black, cold halls of the abandoned racetrack. The halls were not empty, though. They were filled with memories. Not just Richie's, but others, as well. People she had never met. People she probably never would meet. 

Her fingers lightly traced the cold wall. She shuddered as a sense of evil raced through her. Something dark and demonic had once traveled this path. Just as Richie and MacLeod had once traveled it. 

Richie had been here. In this very spot. She could feel his emotions from that night. Fear for Joe. Worry for MacLeod. 

The halls were the exact same as they had been in her nightmare. Except Richie and Duncan were not here now. No, they had been here three years ago. It was just her and their memories tonight. 

Claude had been in her nightmare. Was he here now? 

"Come out, come out, where ever you are?!" she screamed to the empty surroundings. "This is it, isn't it, Claude! The place where the past and the present collide! Isn't this what you wanted?" 

Her words were the only answer she received. They echoed over and over, finally fading. 

"You said I couldn't save them all!" she screamed again. "Well, you were right! I couldn't save any of them. Not Mom or Dad or you or Richie! Is this my punishment? Do you haunt me because I couldn't stop it? Well, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" 

She pushed a hand through her tangled blonde hair, her attention drifting to a dark corner. That was where Claude had always been hiding in her dream. And someone else had been there, too, in her nightmares. The one who had grabbed her from the shadows. 

In that moment, she sensed that she was no longer alone. Someone else was here. 

She backed up hesitantly. She had been a fool to come here. Richie had tried to warn her, but she hadn't listened. She needed to get out of this place-- 

A hand shot from the darkness then. It roughly clamped over her mouth, silencing her scream. 

* * *

**Chapter 31**

"Mac." 

Duncan MacLeod whirled around, a mist flowing around his lithe body. "Where am I?" he demanded, his words echoing slightly. 

"You're dreaming, of course." 

"Richie?" he whispered, turning to see his friend. 

"You were expecting someone else?" the young man smiled. His hand slid from behind his back then, and Duncan saw the sword he was holding. 

He eyed it warily. It was his sword. His _katana._ The one that had claimed the life of Richie Ryan. Was this a dream? Was it some sort of cosmic justice? Was his friend back to settle the score? 

Richie moved in his direction, holding the sword out to him. "Take it. Take it and protect her. She needs you, Mac. She's in danger." 

"Shelby?" he questioned, taking the sword that was extended to him. He turned his attention back to Richie, watching as he seemed to fade. "Where is she? Richie?! Where is she?" 

"You know where. . ." 

Duncan bolted up in his bed, a fine sheen of sweat covering his body. His hand felt heavy, and he glanced down to see. . .his sword. His sword was in his hand. How had it gotten there? He had left it lying on the dresser across the room. 

He shuddered at the cold feel in the air. He had felt it only twice before. The first time he had dreamed of Ryan. And earlier that night in Shelby's room. 

"Richie?" he breathed in wonderment, feeling as if he was no longer alone. 

Shelby was in danger. The thought raced through him as if it had been whispered in his ear. He flung the covers aside, hastily reaching for his clothes. 

Richie had said he would know where. And he did. God help him, he did. The old racetrack. 

He had not been there since the night his friend had died. He had not even contemplated the notion of returning. But he had to this night. 

It was what Richie wanted. 

* * *

**Chapter 32**

"She's gone," Methos furiously announced, slamming the door to his bedroom as he stomped out. 

"What?" Dawson exploded in disbelief. "How could she have gone? Where?" 

"I don't know," Methos cursed in frustration, his mind returning to the horrible reality of earlier that day. 

Joe seemed to read his mind. He shook his head at the mere thought of her suicide attempt. "You don't think. . .?" 

The phone rang then, startling both men. Methos snatched it up in a hurry, barking, "What?" 

"Why, hello, Adam," a familiar voice drawled on the other end. "How is Joe?" 

"Who is this?" he demanded. 

"Why, Adam, I'm hurt! You don't remember me? And to think you'd forget me. I would never forget you. You gave me and James a marvelous gift thirteen years ago." 

"Sean Crane," he spat in recognition. "What do you want?" 

"Put MacLeod on," he ordered. 

"He's not here," Methos insisted. 

"Tsk, tsk," he scolded. "You shouldn't lie. He has to be there because he isn't at his barge." 

"I told you, he's not here," he insisted. 

"Well then you give him a message for me," Crane instructed. "You tell him that I have the lovely Miss Donovan. And if he wants to see her again, he will meet me." 

"Meet you where?" Methos demanded, quietly motioning for Joe to call MacLeod on his cell phone. 

"At the place he'll never forget," Crane laughed. 

Methos heard the line click dead on the other end as he demanded, "Where is that? Crane? Crane! Dammit! He hung up." 

"There's no answer at the barge," Dawson swore, clicking his cell phone shut. "What did he say?" 

"He has Shelby," Methos sighed. "He wants MacLeod to meet him at 'the place he will never forget'. Any idea what he means?" 

"The racetrack," Dawson groaned. "Shelby kept bringing up Richie. It has to be the racetrack." 

The other man nodded in agreement, racing across the room and retrieving his sword. Meeting Joe's eyes from across the room, he insisted, "Someone has to stop him. For Shelby's sake." 

"I'm going with you," he assured. "Like you said, someone has to stop this." 

"We'll call MacLeod again from the car." 

"No," Dawson insisted. "Crane is luring him back there for a reason. It's where Richie died. I won't let him do that to Mac." 

Methos merely nodded, quietly insisting, "Let's go." 

* * *

**Chapter 33**

Sean Crane stuffed the cell phone into his jacket pocket, turning to face the furious eyes of his young hostage. "Your boyfriend will be here soon enough." 

"Go to hell," she snapped. 

He reached out and caught her chin in hand, questioning, "Why did you come here, Shelby? What made you chose this place?" When she made no comment, he continued, "Do you even know the significance of this building? What it means to MacLeod?" 

"Of course she doesn't know," a new voice insisted. Both sets of eyes turned as Gregory Pike entered the small room. He walked across the room, kneeling in front of her. "Why is she tied?" 

"I didn't want her to escape," Crane stated. 

"She would never do that," Pike insisted. He withdrew his sword from his coat and gently sliced the ropes at her wrists. He laid the blade on the floor beside them, cupping her hands. "You are freezing, my dear." 

He tugged his coat off, wrapping it around her shoulders. He lightly caressed her upper arms through the thick material. She was his Rose, he thought with a smile. His second chance. He had loved Rosie, and MacLeod had taken her from him. He had lived with the horror of that day for over a hundred years. Tonight, he would extract his revenge for what MacLeod had forced him to do. And he would have her back. 

"Where would you like to go?" he suddenly asked. "I don't think we should stay in Paris after this. How do you feel about Madrid? Or back to the States. The choice is--" 

"I'm not her," Shelby interrupted him. "Whoever it is you think I remind you of, I am not her." 

"My dear, I know this has to be terribly confusing to you, but I will explain everything to you. I just have to take care of some things tonight." 

"You will die tonight," she disagreed, glancing towards Crane. "One way, or the other." 

Suspicion touched Pike's eyes as he leveled a challenging glare at his companion. "I don't know what she is babbling about," Crane insisted. "Besides, we both know she is insane." 

"Don't say that!" Pike shouted. "Don't ever say that about her again! No, what we both know is that you have lied to her most of her life. Rose--Shelby," he corrected himself, turning back to her. "Everything you believed you saw that night with Claude was true. Immortals are real. I am one." 

He stiffened then, reaching for the sword that he had laid aside earlier. He stood to his full height, stating, "MacLeod is here." 

"That's impossible. I just called his friends," Crane insisted. 

A shadow filled the small room then, and all eyes turned as Duncan MacLeod stepped forward, his katana in hand. He eyed Pike, hatred brimming in his dark eyes. 

"Get out of here, Duncan," Shelby suddenly pleaded, pushing from the chair and grabbing Pike as he made a move towards MacLeod. "It's a trap." 

With a shout of frustration, Pike roughly pushed her back, sending her spilling to the floor with a grunt of pain. MacLeod took a worried step towards her but Pike stepped in between them, his sword drawn. 

"It looks like they both choose you over me, huh?" he spat. "Rosie and Shelby. They were both mine and--" 

"Rose was never yours!" Duncan shouted back. "And Shelby won't be, either." 

Crane laughed from behind them, a loud, nerve shattering sound. He grabbed Shelby's arm and hauled her back to her feet, producing a pistol and aiming it at the two men. "How ironic," he laughed hardly. "You two, fighting over a woman again. Do you have any idea how many Immortals she has killed?!" 

At the questioning look of MacLeod, he laughed harder. "Oh, yes, MacLeod. Am I making you have doubts now? Are you wondering which one of us you should turn your back on? Are you wondering who to trust right now?" He slowly turned the barrel of the gun to caress Shelby's pale cheek. "Do you choose her? Or do you let her die? She worked for Horton, you know." 

"No," Duncan confidently stated. "Horton used her." 

"And she led him to Immortal after Immortal," Crane assured. "Horton couldn't just ask for a file on an Immortal, especially if that Immortal turned up dead shortly thereafter. People might have gotten suspicious. No, he used our lovely Miss Donovan here. She led the way with her 'insight'. Do you know that she lead Horton to your good friend Jacob Galati and his lovely wife? She even told him where you were once. So is she worth it? Is she worth dying for?" 

"No," Shelby answered, her eyes pleading with him. "Don't do it." 

MacLeod turned to her then, looking deeply into the clear depths of her blue eyes. And that was when he saw it. 

He saw Rose Thornton in her. 

He saw in her the same kind, gentle soul that he had first fallen in love with. Whether she called herself Rose or Shelby, it didn't matter. The soul was still the same. In that moment, he knew. He knew that this was Rose. And she had kept her promise. She had came back for him. 

Perhaps theirs was a love never meant to be. Perhaps they were meant for tragedy from the start, in every life. He didn't know. All he did know was that he was willing to die for her, just as she had died for him. 

"Yes," he whispered the soft caress mostly for her. "She is worth it." 

The revelation seemed to surprise Crane, for he faltered a moment. Pike took the initiative then, demanding, "Then hand over your sword." 

"Your word, Pike," he bargained. "My life for hers. You let her live, and I will give you my sword." 

"You have my word," Pike vowed. "Now hand over your blade." 

"Don't," Shelby pleaded. "Duncan, please don't." 

Her words were cut off as Crane ground the gun into her ribs. "Do it, MacLeod. Or watch her die." 

The Highlander lowered his sword then, turning the blade to face him as he handed it to Pike. He let his eyes wander to hers again, and he took a moment to mourn for them. For what might have been. And he ached for her. He knew too well what it was like to be the one left behind. The one to wonder what could have been. Smiling reassuringly, he made the request of her that Rose had once made of him, "Look for me. I'll find you again." 

"In this life or the next," Shelby vowed, feeling the tears sting her eyes and slide down her cheeks. 

"Let's go," Pike ordered, balancing both his sword and MacLeod's in his hands. 

"Where are taking him?" Crane demanded. 

"I thought he'd like to die in the same spot where he killed his little buddy, Richie," the Immortal snapped, ushering MacLeod from the small room and back into the hall. 

Shelby watched them leave, struggling against the fierce hold on her arm. Crane whirled her around to face him, leveling the gun at her chest. 

"You're going to kill us anyway, aren't you?" she asked, although she already knew the answer. 

"I was going to kill the winner," he assured. "Whoever that was. But I am guessing the winner will be Pike. So, yes, it was my plan to take his head. And your life, as well. I am afraid you have outlasted your usefulness, Ms. Donovan." 

"Actually, I think that rule applies to you, now," Methos spoke hardly as he stepped into the dim light of the room. 

"Pierson," Crane spat, pressing the gun against Shelby's temples. "Where is your good friend Joe?" 

"He's parking the car," he stated sarcastically. 

"Pity. You should have stayed with him," Crane stated, whirling the gun around and firing one shot into Pierson's chest. 

The man gasped in surprise, crumpling to the floor. Shelby hit his arm then, knocking the weapon aside. It slid across the room and she dove for it. Crane grabbed the back of her sweater and dragged her back. She kicked wildly at him, but he managed to avoid her assault. With a rough hand, he slammed her against the wall. He reached into his own coat and retrieved a sword. 

"I came prepared," he stated, raising the weapon at her. 

Shelby started when the sound of a gunshot blasted across the room. The force of the bullet knocked Crane backwards, and he turned in surprise. A stunned gasp escaped him at the sight of Adam Pierson, alive and well, standing before him with Crane's pistol in hand. 

The sword slipped from his hand and he reached up to touch the blood oozing from his chest. "You," Crane hissed, falling to his knees. "You're one of them." 

"It's better than being a monster like you," Methos assured, crossing the room and kicking the sword aside. He put pressure against the wound, stating, "I want to keep you alive. I think our friends in the Watchers would like to chat with you." 

Shelby slid past him, moving unnoticed to the door and slipping out. 

"Adam!" a worried Joe burst into the room. "I heard shots." 

"It's been taken care of, Joe," he assured, eyeing Crane with visible anger. "And just as I promised you. Alive and reasonably well. I'm sure you can get plenty of answers out of him. Did you find MacLeod?" 

"No," Dawson sighed, "I couldn't reach him. Where's Shelby?" 

"She was just. . ." Methos glanced around the room, "here." 

Crane laughed then, groaning in pain when he did. "She went after MacLeod," he decreed. Lightening flashed through the sky then, filling the darkness with the glow of the Quickening. The Watcher laughed harder then, stating, "Ooops. It looks like you are too late." 

"Shut up," Dawson insisted, raising his balled fist and punching Crane in the jaw. He then turned and went in search of MacLeod, quietly praying that he didn't lose another friend in this place. 

* * *

**Chapter 34**

"How does it feel, MacLeod?" Gregory Pike taunted, leading to the exact place where Richie Ryan had died. "To know you will die like your little buddy did? Crane told me all about him. And about how you killed him here." 

MacLeod remained silent, refusing to be taunted. Yes, Richie had died here. In this very spot. It had been Ahriman's evil work. The monster had caused him to do things that even he had never thought himself possible of. Would he see Richie in the next world? Would his friend understand? Those were the doubts that had haunted him for the last three years. And those were the doubts that Pike was playing on now. Joe had been right. This man didn't just want him dead, he wanted him destroyed in the process. 

"I didn't kill Rose," he finally stated. 

"You took her from me!" Pike screamed at him. "Because of you, she died!" 

"No. Because of both of us, she died," he stated. 

Pike balanced both swords in his hand. He swung MacLeod's katana at him, and the Highlander narrowly dodged it. 

"Crane will kill you, you know," Duncan stated. 

"He will try," Pike acknowledged. "But I already knew he would. He will die tonight, too. Right after you." 

"And Shelby? You gave me your word," he reminded. 

"I did," Pike acknowledged. "And maybe I will keep my word." 

A gunshot echoed through the empty building, stilling MacLeod. "Shelby," he whispered softly. 

"And maybe I won't," he shrugged. 

A black rage filled Duncan then. This man had cost him Rose. Now Shelby. He was taunting him with Richie. Maybe tonight was the end, but he wouldn't go easily. 

A second gunshot rang out then, catching Pike by surprise. Duncan used the opening to charge, tackling the other Immortal and knocking them both to the floor. He caught both of Pike's writs in hand and slammed them against the hard cement. He raised a knee and sank it deeply into the other man's abdomen. 

Pike gasped for air, feeling the katana being ripped from his grasp. He pushed against MacLeod, knocking the other man off him. Duncan rolled to his feet, slowly circling his adversary. 

Pike stood as well, pointing out, "I guess you will get your fair fight, after all." 

"You talk too much," Duncan hissed, charging his enemy. He swung the ancient blade with expert precision. 

Pike was well trained for he defended well, using the strength of his own blade to block the lethal shots. He lunged at his adversary, and MacLeod knocked his thrust aside, their swords tangling and driving into the ground. The force of it sent MacLeod to his knees, Pike standing over him. 

Their bodies were inches apart, their hands gripping the handles of swords as their eyes met. Pike sensed the victory. "Good-bye, MacLeod," he sneered, jerking his weapon free and raising it for the fatal strike. 

"Duncan!" Shelby screamed as she raced toward him. 

For one horrifying moment, MacLeod was back in time, watching Rose sacrifice herself for him. _Not this time,_ he silently vowed, raising his sword as the blade came crashing towards him. He caught the blade with his own. Stopping it. Breaking it. 

The steel snapped into, flying across the room. Duncan rose in a flawless movement, driving the sword deep into Pike's chest. 

The man grunted in pain and disbelief, raising stunned eyes to his opponent. MacLeod pulled the sword from his body, raising it for the fatal blow. "For Rose," he whispered, swinging the katana and claiming the life of Gregory Pike. 

The decapitated body fell at his feet, separating him and Shelby. He raised his eyes to hers, and she took a step towards him. 

"Duncan--" 

"No," he insisted, feeling the Quickening filling the room. "Stay back." 

The lightening flashed through the room then, knocking her back several feet. MacLeod screamed as it took him, filling him. He closed his eyes as the electricity ravaged his body. Images flooded his mind. He saw Rose walking to him. Smiling at him. He heard her gentle voice promising, "'And fare thee well, my only Love. And fare thee well awhile. And I will come again, my love. . .'" 

He collapsed to his knees in exhaustion, leaning heavily on his sword. Shelby moved to him then, kneeling before him and resting a gentle, concerned hand on his shoulder. He raised his eyes to her and let his gaze caress her face. Rose had kept her promise to him. She had came again. She was here with him now. And he had the uncanny feeling that others were with them as well. 

He belatedly realized she wasn't returning his attention. She was looking beyond him. At something that was past him. He turned slowly, and stilled at what he saw. 

"You see him too?" Shelby's question sounded more like a plea as she offered him her support as they stood. 

"Richie?" Duncan whispered in disbelief, unable to take his eyes off the apparition that stood only feet from him. Was he hallucinating? Was it even possible? 

A soft glow shimmered around the body of Richie Ryan. He smiled, lighting up his peaceful face. "It's about time you saw me. You know, you are not an easy man to haunt, Mac." 

"Richie," he sobbed the name, crossing the short distance and reaching out for him. A rush of cold air greeted his hand and. . .something more. He felt his hand rest against the cheek of Ryan's face. "Oh, God, Richie. Is it really you?" 

"It's me, Mac," he assured. 

The reality of this hit MacLeod then. Richie was here. He stood face to face with the friend whose life he had taken. "I'm sorry. I am so very--" 

"Don't do this to yourself," he interrupted. "You could be The One that is left in the end. You are the best of us. Ahriman knew that. He feared you. He knew you had the power to destroy him, so he tried to destroy you instead. That is why he killed me. It wasn't you, Mac. It was him." 

"I have lived with the horror of that night for three years," MacLeod stated, his anguished voice filled with guilt. "All I've wanted was to take it back. To make you know how sorry I was. I wanted you to forgive me." 

"I never blamed you," Ryan insisted. "Mac, I knew it wasn't you that night. I knew it was Ahriman. I think I knew the moment I stepped into this place that I would be fighting him. And a part of me knew that I would die." 

"That night. . ." he stopped short, his voice breaking as he struggled to ask the one question that had haunted him for so long. "Did you. . .did you feel. . ." 

"There was no pain," Richie assured, understanding what his friend was trying to ask. "I saw you coming at me, but my mind never registered what was happening. Then I felt this overwhelming sense of peace. I was floating towards this light, Mac, and Tessa was there." 

"Tess," he whispered past the lump in his throat. 

"Yes," the Heavenly smile spread across his face. "She looked so beautiful. I just wanted to embrace her. But she told me to stop. She told me I had to go back. That things weren't finished, and you still needed me. All of a sudden, I was being pushed back and I was here again. You were weeping on the floor over a body. I tried to call out to you, to ask you what was wrong, but you never replied. Then you just walked right past me, like I wasn't even standing there. And then Joe was crying and. . .and that was when I realized: the body was me. I was dead. . .yet I wasn't. I tried to contact you and Joe and even Methos. But I couldn't make you hear me. I followed you to the monastery. I tried to make you hear me, Mac. To make you know I didn't blame you." 

Tears filled MacLeod's eyes and slipped down his cheeks at the words. "Oh, Richie, I felt you there. I knew you were there with me." 

"I know," he assured. "I heard your words. And I forgave you. I kept thinking you would know that, and then I could pass over. But I never did. Then you came back to Paris and defeated Ahriman. And I thought, 'This is it. He's won and my work here is over. He'll forgive himself now'. But you didn't. I kept trying to reach out to you and make you hear me, but I never could. I couldn't reach you or Joe and I still couldn't pass over to the other side. So I just drifted instead. In and out. From here to there. Then one day, in San Francisco, I sat alone under this tree watching the sunset, and that was when a woman spoke to me." 

Shelby covered her mouth with a trembling hand, trying to hold back the sob at his confession. 

Richie offered her a comforting smile as he continued, "At first, I thought she couldn't be speaking to me. It was impossible. I was dead and she was alive. How could she see me? But she did. I come to realize that she had a gift. A power from beyond this world. The interesting thing about being a ghost is you have free reign," he joked. "I saw her files. I sat in on the plans of Crane and Greenlee. And that was when I knew what Tessa meant. You needed me. This is why I couldn't pass over, Mac. I had to do this one last thing for you. And I had to make Shelby see the truth. To realize who and what she was." 

He held his shimmering hand out to her, and she stepped forward to take it. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she whispered, "The dream? Were you trying to make me understand what had happened to you?" 

"The dream wasn't my doing," Ryan insisted. "I think it was Claude's. Like me, he was trying to protect you from Crane and Pike." 

"He told me I couldn't save them all--" 

"You weren't suppose to save me," he insisted. "You weren't suppose to save him. That is what he was trying to make you see. You have a gift, but you can't use it to save those of us who are already gone. You can only help the ones that are still here." 

"I don't understand," she insisted. 

"You will in time," he assured. "You don't even know how powerful you are, do you? Shelby, Claude was not haunting you. You were haunting him. You couldn't let go of his death and because of that, he couldn't rest. You were holding him here. That is what he wants you to understand. He needs you to let him go," Richie insisted, glancing past her to MacLeod. In a quiet voice, he requested, "And I need you to let me go, Mac. I need you to forgive yourself, and let me pass over." 

Duncan nodded, the swell of emotion in his throat making it impossible for him to speak. 

A peaceful smile spread across the face of Ryan as he realized his friend understood. Mac knew that he did not blame him for his death. And he knew that MacLeod would let him go now. Duncan would let go of the pain and grief and guilt. He would forgive himself, just as Richie had forgiven him. 

He glanced at Shelby before turning back to his friend, requesting, "You'll look out for her?" 

"With my life," Duncan vowed. 

Richie turned back to Shelby then. "You have the power to hold me here. I need you to let go. Let me pass." 

"How?" she asked. "How do I guide you to the other side?" 

"Just kiss me, and say good-bye," he explained. "It's that easy." 

She released a laugh that sounded more like a sob. He thought this was easy! Drawing a shaky breath, she reminded, "I thought we didn't say those words?" 

"We do this time," Richie insisted. "If you had said those words to me before, you would have just banished my spirit from reaching you. But this time is different. This time I am ready to go, and you have to say it before I can leave." 

She brushed the tears from her cheeks with a trembling hand. Richie had been her only friend for so long. The only one she could truly count on. And now he was asking her to let him go. She sensed that he knew her pain, though. That he understood how hard this was. But she understood, too. She understood his need to rest peacefully. 

Nodding, she cupped his face and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Good-bye," she whispered, embracing him one last time. 

He returned her hug, his expectant blue eyes traveling to MacLeod. 

"Good-bye, Richie," he whispered, watching as his friend slowly faded before his eyes. 

Shelby felt him slipping away, and had to suppress the urge not to hold onto him. She let him go, feeling the emptiness in her arms that had once been him. She slowly sank to her knees, opening her eyes then to see nothing but empty space where Richie had once been. 

"He's gone," she whispered to the empty room. 

"I know," Duncan replied, walking to her. He knelt and gathered her in his arms, holding her close as they both wept. They cried together for the friend that they had lost, and the redemption that they had found. 

Shelby buried her face in the crock of his neck, and he tightened his arms around her. It felt wonderful to be held like this. It felt like coming home. 

She smiled then. Richie knew that this was where she belonged, and he had brought her here. 

"MacLeod!" a voice shouted, breaking the spell. 

She pulled away hastily, standing with him. 

"In here, Joe!" he called back. 

"Oh, thank God!" Dawson exclaimed, moving toward him as fast as he could. 

MacLeod embraced his worried friend, assuring, "I'm okay. We both are." 

He spoke the last words for her. She knew it, and she smiled her agreement. 

"Let's go home," Duncan requested, holding his hand out to her. She took it without hesitation, falling into step beside him. 

Home. She was finally there. 

* * *

**Chapter 35**

Shelby Donovan stood before the Eiffel Tower, a strange sense of déjà vu coursing through her body. She had the strangest feeling that she had lived this moment before. Perhaps she had, in another life. She was starting to learn that many things were possible and beyond even her own imagination. 

Duncan had taken her back to Methos' apartment three nights ago. Along with Joe and Methos, they had spent the whole night talking. She had learned of their Immortality. She had learned of Watchers. They had told her everything. 

In some ways, it had been a burden lifted off her. To know that she was not insane. But another weight had been placed on her shoulders. The knowledge of who she was. The power that she seemed to have. 

She absently twirled the red rose in her fingers. She had bought it from a vendor. She wasn't certain why. An overwhelming urge had made her do it. 

"Shelby?" 

She turned at the sound of her name, smiling as Duncan MacLeod and Joe Dawson walked up to her. "How did your meeting go?" she asked Joe. 

"Good," he assured. "Crane and Greenlee sang against one another like two canaries. With any luck, we will have rounded up what is left of Horton's followers by the end of the day. It looks like we are finally free of that man." 

"Richie would be so proud of you both," she assured. 

Dawson nodded, sensing that they wanted to be alone. "I think I'm going to get a cup of coffee," he stated, walking towards a nearby vendor. 

Shelby watched him leave, laughing as she admitted, "Are you sure he's not the psychic?" 

Duncan laughed, but it had a hollow, sad sound to it. With a reluctant sigh, he admitted, "Cassandra called me earlier." 

"She told you about my decision," she finished for him. "I was going to tell you. This afternoon, actually." 

"I know," he assured, letting his gaze caress her beautiful face. When he had first contacted his friend Cassandra, he had done it in hopes that she might talk to Shelby and help her understand her gift. He had never thought she would actually leave and go to Cassandra. 

"I won't be gone forever," she insisted, reading his eyes. "I just. . .I think I need this time with your friend. To understand what this power I have is. And to understand how to use it." 

"Cassandra will be an excellent teacher for that," he vowed. "She has the same gift." 

"It doesn't feel like much of a gift," she admitted, absently twirling the rose in her hand. "It never did. Least of all when I was in Langston and everyone was telling me I was imagining things, and I was so sure I wasn't." 

"You are not insane," he assured. "You never were." 

"Then there is another reality I have to face," she forced herself to bring up the topic she had been dreading. "I did help Horton kill Immortals." 

"No," he stated in an insistent voice. "Horton did those things all on his own. He used you, Shelby. They hypnotized you and made you help them. You had no way of knowing or stopping them. No one blames you for that, least of all me." 

She smiled in he face of his confidence, shyly admitting, "There is no way I can thank you properly for everything you have done for me." 

"No," he shook his head. "I am the one who needs to thank you. You gave me the opportunity to say all the things to Richie I wanted to say." 

She held the rose out to him. He took it hesitantly, touching the fragile petals. 

"My love is like a red, red rose," Shelby spoke, and then felt herself flush. "I'm sorry. I have no idea why I said that." 

"I think I do," he admitted, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He reached into his coat then and withdrew the book that had once belonged to Rose. Holding it out to her, he insisted, "I want you to have this." 

She took it, hesitantly caressing the worn cover. She could literally feel the memories there. And his pain. He had loved her. 

The thought startled her for a moment. No, Duncan had not loved her. He had loved the woman who had owned this book. Yet she felt strangely connected to that woman. Logic would suggest that it was her special "gift", picking up on his memories. But she knew it was more than that. Hesitantly raising her eyes to his, she realized that he knew it, too. 

She was surprised to find how reluctant she was to leave him. Reaching out to touch his hand, she whispered, "Thank you." 

"You are welcome," he stated, his warm eyes smiling down at her. "You will be fine, Shelby. I think we both will now." 

Tears stung her eyes as she admitted, "Richie was the only one who I trusted for a long time." 

"I know how that feels," he admitted. "But he is gone now. I think he would want you to trust me in his stead. If you need anything--" 

"I will let you know," she promised. 

"When are you leaving?" he forced himself to ask. 

"Tonight. Adam has already made the reservations. In fact, he's probably waiting on me. He's going to drive me to the airport," she stated, reluctant to leave. 

Duncan used his thumb to caress the hand he still held, sighing, "Then I guess this is good-" 

"No," she cut him off. "I'll be back. That much I promise you. So let's just say this is 'See you soon'." 

He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it. She let her hand linger in his touch for a moment before reluctantly stepping away from him. He watched her leave, whispering softly, "See you soon, sweetheart." 

Joe Dawson moved to stand beside him, stating, "Our people went to Pike's penthouse to collect a few things for the archives. We found a painting of Rose Thornton. It's yours, if you want it." 

"No," MacLeod shook his dark head. "I think it is time to let the past stay in the past. Put Rose's painting in the archives." 

Joe nodded, turning his attention to Shelby, watching as she walked away from them. As she possibly walked out of their lives 

Curiously, he asked, "Do you think you will ever see her again?" 

She turned then, and smiled one last time at Duncan. He returned her smile, knowing in his heart that she would come back to him. Whether it be a year to ten or a hundred. She would find him again. He was certain their souls would reconnect, no matter how many life times it took. He knew that like he knew he had breath in his lungs. 

"I know I will see her again, Joe," he assured. "I know I will." 

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© 2001   
Please send comments to the author! 

Background by Daire 

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